


letters unread

by mmtion



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-07 17:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 69,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8808862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmtion/pseuds/mmtion
Summary: Princess Iris West can't wait to marry Sir Thawne - as soon as he gets around to actually proposing. A betrothal agreement to some prince from Central City, signed by their parents two decades ago, certainly isn't anything to concern herself with. But when an attack at her birthday celebration forces her to make a decision for the peace of her kingdom, she'll have to reconsider her stance on arranged marriages, and maybe on Prince Allen himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> big thanks to sophisticatedloserchick at tumblr for looking over this!

Iris peers over the lip of the well, resting her weight against the old, grey stone. Beside her, Linda, her lady-in-waiting and closest friend, lets out a muted sound of horror, presumably at Iris getting her pinafore mucky. Iris ignores her as she holds her lantern above the darkness, letting the warm light glitter over the water below. It’s dusk, and light is quickly receding over the West kingdom.

Her father had been listening to complaints about people stricken by vomit spells all week. He had feared a plague, but all were well again within a few days. Iris had happened to hear him complaining to one of his knights, “We just can’t pinpoint where it’s come from, that’s what’s frustrating. There’s no common food, no foul meat, or even a witch sighting. Nobody has any idea.”

And, well, Iris did have an idea.

So here she is, dragging Linda out after supper to one of the city’s wells, on the north side. Winter is drawing over the West kingdom with its usual grace, as trees lose their final leaves and the city markets start to display their best fur coats. The first snow is always Iris’ favourite time of year, and not just because it usually falls around her birthday.

“I still don’t see why you’re so sure it’s this well,” Linda says, folding her arms even as she leans over the opposite side.

“I asked for the records of all the sick, and just marked their homes on the city map. They all get their water from this well.” As she explains her theory, Iris frowns at the lack of illumination further down the hole, standing on tip toes to hold the lantern as low as possible.

“So they all live nearby - then maybe it’s a contagious sickness,” points out Linda.

“Then why hasn’t it spread further?” Iris counters. “I asked Caitlin, and she said a vomiting bug passes across the city much faster - even those in the villages or farms would be sick by now.”

Linda purses her lips in consideration; Caitlin Snow, the castle’s chief doctor, was certainly respected enough for her opinions to be considered fact.

Iris lets out a muted sound as an idea strikes her. She reaches for the wooden pail hanging above the well, and dumps the lantern inside. She then reaches for the brass handle controlling the pulley mechanism and begins spinning it. Both she and Linda lean over again as the lantern descends and illuminates the well’s depths.

They both hold their breaths.

“Ah-ha!” Iris crows.

Linda groans. “Fine,” she concedes. “You were right. The water’s contaminated.”

The lantern has lit the very bottom of the well and its water reserve, revealing the floating body of a rather dead rat.

“Now,” Iris says, leaning on her elbows. “How exactly do we get it out?”

Linda twists her lips. “There’s not many tools around.” She’s right - they’re in the more rural outskirts of the town, and they’d have to walk half a mile only to find most of the shops shut for the day. “Unless we got some long sticks and tried to pinch it?”

Iris makes a non-committal noise, mind whirring for an idea. She hardly wants to leave the decomposing rat for another night, not when so many people rely on the water supply. “We really need a net of some kind…” She trails off, and her chin darts up with another idea, locking her animated gaze with Linda’s.

Linda narrows her eyes in suspicion. “What are you thinking?”

“Don’t kill me,” Iris says, before quickly whipping off her pinafore.

“Iris!” But Linda’s cry of admonishment falls on deaf ears, and Iris grips the fabric tightly as she tears it in half, leaving two long strips of white cotton. Her yellow dress underneath is still intact, and she has plenty of pinafores back at the castle anyway. Linda lets out a defeated sigh. “I’ll go find some sticks.”

“Thank you!” Iris replies brightly as Linda makes her way over to the forest’s entrance, where the trees are still sporadically spaced.

They’re outside the city walls, which might have been a cause for concern when Iris was a little girl. Now, she spends as much time in the towns and the forest as she does within the castle grounds, and her parents have given up on trying to enforce the usual royal parameters on their children. The West realm is expansive, and exciting, and often beautiful, and Wally and Iris have never ceased to try and explore all its depths.

As Iris fashions one strip of fabric into a kind of net shape, Linda comes back with two sticks a few feet tall. They manage to attach the pieces together, though the ever-dimming light of the evening makes it difficult, as does Linda’s continued grumbling about the ruined pinafore.

“I’ll sew it back together!” Iris protests, only inspiring a scoff from Linda.

“Yeah, right. You’ll start sewing it, and then get distracted by a new book, or something new to investigate. Remember when you were supposed to be helping trim the gardens and you ended up proving the gardener’s son was selling opium?”

“Well,” Iris defends, “He was.”

Linda rolls her eyes, though she can’t hide her smile. As much as she might try and scold Iris, they both know she loves the adventures as much as Iris does. “Whatever. Let’s catch this rat and then get back before your father notices we skipped on your economics lesson.”

They manage to attach the rope to the sticks, and then attach another stick to each handle for good measure using the spare fabric. It’s a rickety-looking device, but it seems to hold up well enough when they test it with the spare candle they brought for the lantern. They decide that Iris will try to fish the rat out while Linda looks from a different angle to give any advice.

And that’s how Iris finds herself leaning her belly on the edge of a dirty well to pull out a rotting rat. All in all, it’s probably not what her royal tutor was hoping the future Queen of West Kingdom would be spending her evening doing.

But the device is just an inch too short to comfortable scoop up the vermin’s body, no matter what angle or force Iris attempts. She huffs in frustration as the fabric only brushes the rat. If she could just get a little closer-

Linda’s watching the rat, so she doesn’t notice that her friend is getting perilously close to topping straight over the well’s edge-

Iris manages to loop the fabric underneath the rat, balancing on the tips of her toes - but as she tries to pull herself, and her victory, back up, she feels the shift of gravity, of vertigo-

Suddenly, she’s grabbed, just moments before she goes over, by a strong set of arms from behind her.

But the momentum of pulling her back up sends them falling the other way and onto the grass with breath-stealing impact. As she, and whoever saved her from a nasty fall, go tumbling backwards, the makeshift net comes with them, flying straight up through the air. Iris rolls to the side, dazed, and hears the wet  _splat_  of the rat’s impact.

She sits up, both to survey the damage and see who exactly her rescuer is. She looks to her side, to see none other than Sir Thawne, looking traumatised, with the sodden and decomposing rat smacked just beside his ear.

Iris claps her hands to her mouth. “Oh my god, Ed- Sir Thawne!”

“Hi, Princess,” he smiles weakly.

Is it possible to at once feel mortified and exceedingly pleased at someone’s appearance? Iris stands quickly, all rapid apologies as she holds out her hand to help Eddie up. He ignores it, pushing himself just as Linda reaches them. “Iris!” She exclaims. “Are you alright? Sir Thawne, what are you doing here?”

“I’m fine,” Iris assures, cheeks hot. “Although I’m sure I wouldn’t be if it weren’t for Sir Thawne here.”

“It was my pleasure to help,” he says, in that throaty, delicious voice of his. His blue eyes glitter in the sunset’s light, blonde hair almost glowing. He is dressed as impeccably as always, a knight by trade but noble by birth. His horse is waiting calmly a few feet away, not even tied up. Iris feels a flutter in her gut at the idea of Eddie rushing to dismount for her safety.

She remembers seeing Eddie for the first time - he had only arrived to the West kingdom six months ago, moving into the nearby Thawne Manor after staying with a relative - and he was as gorgeous then as he is now. He had been riding past the castle, and had dismounted specially to help her carry some of the spare bread and vegetables she had been taking to the children’s home. He had talked to her so normally, unlike most of the other eligible bachelors she’s met, too obvious in their knowledge of her royal blood. He was so charming; he still is.

All the ladies at court adore him, obviously, but he’s been spending enough time around the castle, visiting her father and walking her around the West gardens, that she really believes he might return her feelings. Certainly, the private smile he gives her now does nothing to dissuade her hope.  

He cocks his head, tilting back to appraise the small corpse still pathetically lain on the ground. “Uh,” he says. “Can I ask what you two ladies were doing?”

“Saving the village,” Linda replies, and Iris rolls her eyes, fighting back a laugh at her friend’s humour.

“Not quite,” Iris says. “We think the rat was contaminating the water supply, that’s why the villagers have been getting sick.”

Eddie nods thoughtfully. “That’s a good idea - and what did you use for the, ah, catch?” He nods to the sticks-and-fabric piece, now falling apart a little after the dramatic lift.

“My pinafore,” Iris says. With that, she abruptly remembers she’s wearing one of her plainer dresses, a less formal sunflower yellow flowing down the natural line from her hips to rest at her shins.She quickly explains, a little embarrassed, “I didn’t want my usual dresses to get dirty.”

“You still look lovely,” Eddie says, and Iris feels her whole world light up. “And that was clever of you.”

“Thanks,” Iris says, trying to tamper down on her smile.

“So what are you doing over here, Sir Thawne?” Linda asks. “Thawne Manor’s much further south, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Eddie’s smile dims a little. “I was actually hoping to find you - I’m afraid I have to leave for a while.”

Iris feels her blood freeze, and struggles for words.

“I’m going to go, um, look at that tree,” says Linda, rather unsubtly, before walking away to give the two some privacy.

“I wanted to speak to you later, or at your home, but I don’t think time will allow for it.” Eddie twists his lips, looking away before back to Iris. He really does look upset by the news he bears, which at least gratifies a small part of her. “One of my friends from my time away has taken ill, and I’m afraid his landlord is a cruel man. I need to go sort out his estate, to make sure his wife and children will be okay if the worst does happen.”

Oh, of course he’s going for a noble reason, one that Iris can hardly fault. “But- how long will you be gone?” She doesn’t dare to say what’s on the tip of her tongue, knows that any declarations of her feelings would be inappropriate. She had thought they were so close, that soon he would come talk to her father, talk to  _her_ , and maybe- but that would have to wait.

“A few months, I think.” Iris can’t help her expression at that - she was expecting only a few weeks! He looks as miserable as she feels - could he be as upset as she is?

“Oh.” Her hands wring, and her gaze drops to them, unsure of what she should say. She jolts with surprise as his own hands cover hers, stilling them.

“Princess,” he begins. He takes a deep breath - is he nervous? “You must know my feelings by now.”

“Your- your feelings?” She almost can’t believe this is happening, the moment she’d been hoping and daydreaming about for so long.

But he doesn’t expand on what those feelings are. “I know your birthday is tomorrow, and this year you’ll be eligible for marriage.”

Though there is nothing forcing her to marry as soon as she turns twenty-one, it is the age for matrimonial consent. (Some will marry younger in the more rural areas, but it would be unheard of within noble circles.) At twenty-five, she’ll be expected to take over the throne, as is custom in the West kingdom, so those four years are simply most practical to find a husband or wife in.

Eddie takes a breath in and his fingers curl around Iris’ hand, surrounding it with soft, warm skin. “I know I cannot ask anything of you, but I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering whether you might consider waiting for me to return.” He looks back up at her with those blue eyes, pupils dilated in the low light. “I was wondering if, then, maybe I could ask you another question.”

Iris bites her lip against the crazy grin threatening to split her face in two. She tries to remember everything her etiquette tutor had tried to teach her about proposals, and maybe wishes she hadn’t spent most of those lessons reading the adventures of an explorer who claimed to be magic. She settles for smiling, and turning her hands within his so their fingers entwine. “Sir Thawne,” she says, quietly so as not to betray her wild enthusiasm. “I would hope you might guess what my answer will be.”

He lets out a shaky breath, and it’s the first time Iris considers that maybe his composure isn’t always further than skin deep, that maybe he’s feeling as wild and crazed and excited as she is. “That’s- Princess, that’s a wonderful thing to hear.”

Her mood dampens when she remembers the reason Eddie is telling her all of this is only because he will be leaving for so long. She doesn’t think she can even bear it.

“I’ll back before you even miss me,” he says, obviously reading her expression perfectly.

“I doubt that,” she replies.

His lips quirk up, just for a moment, before he lets out a deep exhale and steels himself. “I should go,” he says. “I still have to return to the manor to pack for my travels.”

She wishes he’d kiss her; in one moment, it seems as if he will, leaning his face just that inch closer to hers. But he takes a step back, bending at the waist to kiss her hand instead, still held loosely in his.

“Goodbye, Princess,” he says, and all Iris wants to do is try and convince him to stay, a selfish part of her stamping its foot selfishly.

But no, she decides. She won’t wallow. She might have to wait a few months, but at least now she has something concrete, something closer to a promise in the way he had come to say goodbye to her. Her heart flutters to think of Eddie proposing for real, how happy they could be together.

“Goodbye, Sir Thawne,” she replies, voice soft and private in their own shared moment, only the trees and birds around them.

He goes back to his horse and climbs on gracefully. With one last look and a shared smile with her, he kicks his heels into the horse’s belly, and leaves southward-bound.

Iris watches him go, and feels, rather than sees, Linda come closer to stand beside her. “I can’t believe he’s leaving,” Iris says, softly.

“He’s coming back, isn’t he?” Linda doesn’t seem quite as bothered as Iris is.

“Yes, but-” Iris struggles to find the words, the sense that his leaving means a change from her plans that she can’t quite put her finger on.

“I don’t understand you around him.”

Iris feels her face heat, embarrassed at the idea of being so obvious. “What do you mean?”

“You  _know_  the rat was poisoning the village water,” Linda says, frowning a little. “I don’t understand why you phrased it like that.”

“Like what?” Iris asks, defensively.

“‘We think.’ Like you wanted him to confirm your theory.”

“I was just being modest,” Iris dismisses.

“Yeah, that’s my point.  The Iris West I know is smart as hell and twice as nosy, and she knows it.”

Iris frowns, not wanting to acknowledge her friend’s words. “It was just phrasing. It doesn’t matter - especially when he promised to ask me to marry him when he returns.”

At that, Linda’s eyebrows raise, her previous doubt about Eddie apparently pushed away. “He did?”

Iris nods, biting back her grin as she finally allows the happiness to wash over her. “He did!”

Linda looks thoughtful as she looks to the road down which Eddie had gone. “Well, he is handsome,” she muses. “Your children would probably be unfairly pretty.”

Iris feels her cheeks go hot. “No-one’s thinking about children yet!” But her embarrassment only makes Linda laugh out loud. To try and hide her red cheeks, Iris busies herself with wrapping up the dead rat in the ruins of her pinafore dress, trying not to look too closely at it, or breath in.

“So, you’d say yes?” Linda confirms. “When he asks?”

“Of course,” Iris replies, as she walks with the wrapped body towards the edge of the forest. She deposits it behind a thick nettle bush, letting nature do with it what it wants. At the very least, it will probably be an excellent fertilizer **.**

They begin the walk back to the castle, after collecting the lantern to illuminate their way in the surrounding darkness. From here, the route is a safe one. None in the city would dare to harm Iris so close to the castle with city guards patrolling, and though a monarch could never be universally loved, King Joseph West came pretty close.

“You wouldn’t consider any other options?” Linda persists, her voice just a shade too innocent for Iris not to be suspicious.

“What are you getting at?”

Linda lets out a little laugh, shoving her gently. “I’m talking about the fact you’re already engaged!”

For a second, Iris is confused, wondering when on earth she had been proposed to. Then she realises what Linda’s talking about. “Oh, that doesn’t count.”

“Um, pretty sure it does,” Linda disagrees, obviously taking pleasure in how much Iris hates talking about this subject.

This subject being, of course, the very technical matter of being betrothed to a nearby prince since birth.

Theoretically, Iris has always known that in her father’s study, there is a piece of parchment, an engagement contract, that states that she, Princess Iris West, will marry Prince Allen, son of King Henry Allen of Central City. (She’s sure someone’s told her, years ago, what her betrothed’s name is, but, well, she’s quite clearly put it all to the back of her mind.)

But isn’t that her point? She doesn’t even know the man’s name, never mind what he looks like, or what his personality is like. The contract is obviously just a few words to ensure pleasant politics. And Iris knows for a fact that Henry and Joe are good friends, and she certainly isn’t intending to start a war with Central City. So there’s no real issue - she isn’t particularly worried about it affecting her future marriage to Eddie.

“Mother always said I could choose who I marry,” Iris says, reaching up to fiddle with her necklace. “She wouldn’t make me marry anyone, I’m sure.”

They pass into the city walls, nodding at the guards who know their faces by heart, as Linda points out, “But wasn’t your parents’ marriage arranged?”

“That doesn’t mean they don’t love each other,” Iris replies - because she knows, deep in her heart, that her parents do. She sees it in the way they support each other, the way Francine can make Joe laugh until he cries, the way her father brings her mother flowers every time he leaves the castle.

“Oh, no, I wasn’t-” Linda looks contrite. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Iris assures.

“I was just teasing.”

“I know.” Linda still looks worried, though, so Iris smiles, elbowing her friend gently before linking their arms at the elbow. “Come on, it’s fine. All that will happen is Father will write a letter asking for the contract to be annulled, and Henry will surely say yes.”

Iris had met Henry a few times - though she had never left the border of West Kingdom, a fact she was just a little sore about, he had visited for many of the balls thrown in the castle. He had even been there when the Thawnes had thrown their banquet a few months ago to celebrate Eddie’s official return home.

He seemed a kind man, always quick to smile and never scolded Iris for asking too many questions, both as a child and an adult. Other nobles were always telling Iris she shouldn’t care so much about things that didn’t concern her, both as a lady and a future royal. Like she shouldn’t even notice if the Rainbow Bandit was still loose on the north borders of Central City, or she shouldn’t care what had happened to the missing boy from Gotham. Like all her mind should be filled with is how the annual grain reserves are faring and how soon she can pop out an heir.

“You’re sure?” Linda asks, and Iris realises that underneath the teasing and gentle laughter, Linda really is concerned at any obstacles that might arise.

“I’m sure,” Iris says, firmly, as the castle looms into their sight. Its familiar turrets and beautifully carved stone are always a welcoming presence. “I’m probably never even going to meet Prince Allen.”

-

“What?” Iris asks, sure she can’t be hearing this right.

She’s standing in her father’s study, on the other side of his huge desk, as King Joe West and his wife try to defuse their daughter’s outrage. It’s an impressive room, though much smaller than the more official throne room where ceremonies take place, and slightly smaller than the war room, where he meets with his advisors and generals.

Linda had left to her own chambers barely an hour ago, as Iris had excitedly filled in her brother on the news. While Wally hadn’t particularly seemed bothered either way, too busy trying to keep Linda in conversation (her brother’s crush on Linda is well-known gossip around the castle, to the point where Wally doesn’t even bother to try and deny it anymore). Unbeknownst to her, however, was that her father had been just outside the room.

Apparently he had been ‘just walking by’, but Iris would far rather call it ‘eavesdropping’.

And somehow, that had led to him wanting to see her, and talk to her. She had expected him to be happy - delighted, even. But then she had walked in the room, and seen her mother there as well, standing by the bookcase, a carefully neutral expression on her features, and she knew something was afoot.

“Don’t you like Eddie?” she had asked, confused by their less-than-thrilled expression.

“He’s fine enough,” Francine said, gently, which is hardly the adjective Iris would use, but whatever.

Her father had rubbed at his temples. “Look, Iris, I wasn’t going to tell you until tomorrow, because I didn’t want you to worry or stress. But this complicates things.”

So, her parents are apparently keeping something from her - and they know well enough by now how little she likes things being kept from her.

Iris crosses her arms as she repeats the question. “Tell me what?”

Her father takes a deep breath. “Prince Allen and his party are visiting tomorrow.”

Iris blinks. “I don’t understand. Why?”

She had been joking with Linda just an hour ago, as if it was just a wild concept, the very idea of even having a fiancée. But here it was, slapping her in the face just as everything with Eddie is finally falling perfectly into place.

“It’s your twenty-first birthday. You’ll be eligible for marriage, you know this.” Francine says. She uncrosses her arms to hold them apart a little as if welcoming with her body language. But Iris has seen her pull similar mind games on diplomats, too focused on the threat of the king to focus on the queen. “Isn’t it natural that he’d come to visit? Surely you must have been expecting this.”

She shakes her head because no, she certainly hadn’t. Maybe she should have, but having lived her whole life with a fiancée never there, she had gotten used to it. “Do I-” She’s afraid to ask the question.

Luckily, her mother reads her expression, and mind, and quickly says, “We won’t force you to marry someone you hate. I’d go to war before you or Wally were unhappy, you know that.” She frowns. “Don’t you?”

Iris looks at her feet, not wanting to admit that for a few moments there, she had been worried. She loves her parents, and knows they are good, reasonable people; but they are also monarchs. They ruled over an entire kingdom, not just a household. And if there was one thing that her tutors had managed to drum into her mind over the years, it was that the kingdom comes first.

Anxiously, she fiddles with her gold locket necklace, which is probably reply enough.

Before she can look back up, her father has crossed around his desk to wrap her in a hug. She melts into him, letting her worry wash away.

“We’re not asking you to marry him. The contract is a piece of paper, and I certainly know Henry wouldn’t want either you or his own child in an unhappy marriage. But,” he continues, after the gentle press of his lips against her scalp. “But, baby, at least consider him. Don’t discount him straightaway.”

“I’ll try,” Iris agrees, though, privately, she can’t imagine how on earth she’s supposed to do that when she’s so sure her heart is already decided for. She asks, lightly, “So, you’ve met him?”

“Oh no,” Joe says, stepping away having known his daughter too well for too long to fall for her innocent expression. “You’re not getting any information from me. You’ll meet him properly at the ball tomorrow.”

Francine puts her hand to her forehead at her husband’s loose mouth.

“There’s a ball as well?” Iris exclaims. “Father! Mother?”

“Linda already has your dress prepared,” Francine quickly placates.

“Linda knew as well?” Iris is already getting ready to let her friend have it, teasing her like that.

“No, no,” Francine says. “She just knew there was a surprise ball for your birthday, not that Prince Allen would be coming to it.”

Iris twists her lips, her outrage deflating. “Ah.”

“You know,” Joe says thoughtfully. “I wonder if that’s why Eddie was so eager to speak to you before he left. When I sent out the invitations for the ball, in your name, I’m sure many must have guessed, what with it being so close to your birthday.”

Iris frowns at the thought - though the interpretation lets a bit of the air out of his sort-of-proposal, she must admit that the timing is too coincidental. Also: “Did the whole damn kingdom know Prince Allen was visiting before I did? Have you sent out the wedding invitations as well?” Her voice rises in its growing anger.

“Iris-”

She lets out a sharp exhale. “I’m going to go sleep. I should be well-rested for my  _betrothed_.” The last word seethes from her lips as she stalks out of the room, shutting the door as sharply as she dares behind her.

It’s just so much to take in, and the idea of it all being deliberately kept from her, while all the nobles and the court was gossiping behind her back, is what stings the most.

She ignores her father’s calls for her to wait, far too angry right now to listen to him. She loves them, and she’ll get over it, but she needs at least tonight to collect her thoughts.

She makes her way to her bed chambers. She sends away her maid after she’s heated the bed. She should sheath her dress and change into her night clothes, but her head’s too busy, whirling with Eddie, Prince Allen, and her parents. She’s tempted to go talk to her brother, but she doesn’t want to disturb him if he’s already gone to bed. The same goes for Linda.

So, she goes to the only other place in the castle that’ll clear her mind and put her at ease. She goes to her favourite room, her own safe haven; she grabs a torch, and makes her way to the library.

-

She opens the wooden door as she comes to it, but is surprised to see candles already lit and the room bathed in gentle, warm light. “Hello?” she calls, edging around the door. It would be a bold servant who’d come in here themselves. Neither her brother nor father would be likely suspects, and her mother usually keeps her books in the bedchambers she shares with Joe.

There’s a scraping sound, wooden legs pushed back on the stone floor, as someone quickly stands from one of the chairs, hastily putting down the book they had apparently been reading. “Uh, hi.”

She steps further into the room, examining the stranger. It’s certainly no one she recognises. Light chestnut hair is unruly above unfamiliar green eyes and high cheekbones, freckles are only just visible in the dim light. He’s tall, and gangly for it, dressed in fine clothes - though his jacket has been discarded on the back of the armchair (her favourite one, she notices) and his shirt sleeves have been pushed up his forearms.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” she says, which, okay, is probably a little rude of her.  

“Right,” the man agrees. He seems nervous, for some reason. Does he think she’s going to report him to the guards, or run screaming? “I was just lost around the castle, and thought this was my room, and then, well, I must have gotten distracted by all these books and lost track of time.”

She frowns. If he was lost, he must be a guest, or a new servant, though she certainly hadn’t heard of anyone new being hired. And if he’s a guest, then, “Are you here for the ball tomorrow?”

His eyebrows raise at that. “Yes?”

She can’t help but let out a small laugh at his expression, like a worried puppy, feeling her previous mood lighten by this strange interaction. “Why are you making that sound like a question?”

“I’m not? I’m not,” he corrects, with a cough. But he’s smiling as well, if a little bashfully. He must be a relative, or one of the lower nobles - they always get a little star-struck by the Wests, as both a royal and, if she does say so herself, a rather good-looking family.

She moves further into the room, letting the door shut behind her. She can’t see even a holster for a sword, never mind a weapon, and her gut instinct identifies him as a definite non-threat. “So, which family are you from? I don’t think I’ve seen you at any previous balls. Oh,” she has a sudden thought. “Do you know the Allens?”

He’s staring at her with a curious expression, some strange mix of anticipation and confusion, and she can’t work him out at all. “Yeah, you could say that.” He seems to make something up in his mind, and then he steps forward, with a hand outstretched for her to shake. “I’m Barry.”

She’s surprised at the gesture, staring at the offered arm, and he visibly falters. But she jolts out of her brief daze, and grasps his hand, shaking it firmly. “Sorry” she says, one side of her lips curving in a rueful smile. “Not many men shake my hand. Or, uh, introduce themselves by first name.”

“Oh!” His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth, probably to apologise, before she hurriedly explains.

“No, no, it’s a good thing! I much prefer it. Most men kiss my hand, and, well, if I don’t consider them a suitor, or…” She trails off, not sure how to explain how people struggle with the respect they must give her as future monarch and the respectability they must follow as a woman. “Is that how they do it in…?”

“Central City,” he confirms. “Ah, I’m not sure. I was never good at listening to the etiquette tutor my father hired.” He looks worried. “Is that offensive here? Should I kiss ladies’ hands?”

“Probably,” she admits.

“But they’d prefer to have their hands shaken?”

She pauses. “Um, yeah.”

“Right,” he nods to himself. “Good to know.”

She can’t help a smile at that as she sets down her lantern and blows it out with a sharp puff of breath, seeing as not much reason for it still to be lit. The smoke rises in a small wisp of a trail, and she moves towards the bookshelf, looking for a book and the reason she’d even come down her in the first place. She has no quarrel with this ‘Barry’, and they can sit comfortably together and continue to read.

“So,” he starts up conversation as she browses, brushing the pads of her fingers against the leather spines, imprinted with titles and authors. “You’re Princess West?”

She gives him an odd look over her shoulder, since that should be obvious. “Yes.”

“And you’re engaged to, ah, Sir Allen?”

She shrugs, turning her attention back to the books. She’s looking for one in particular, one of her favourites from childhood, that should ease her nerves before she goes to sleep. Although, she’s certainly feeling calmer, even just from talking to Barry, a total stranger. “I suppose,” she says in answer to his, again obvious, question. She twists her lips at the bookcase, a wry smile. “I meet him tomorrow, apparently. But it doesn’t matter, really.”

“It doesn’t?” He sounds surprised; even, strangely, hurt.

She realises her mistake.  She shouldn’t be even hinting to insult him in front of one of his civilians. “Oh - I didn’t mean offense!” She spins to face him properly, to see him frowning at her, his book lying forgotten on the small table. His expression is unreadable. “I’m sure he’s perfectly nice. But I won’t be marrying him.”

“You’ve already decided you won’t?” His expression flinches at her words, and then recovers. “But aren’t you already betrothed to him?”

Perhaps it will embarrass the people who came to see a wedding if she rejects their Prince - but she doubts Sir Allen even wants to marry her, either. He can’t want to spend the rest of his life with a stranger.

“Only on an old piece of paper,” she defends. The main reason she’d come to the library was to get away from this very subject - with that in mind, she pointedly turns back to the bookcase. As she does so, a title catches her attention from her peripheral vision, and she explains, “It’s an old arrangement, and I’m going to marry for love, not for a contract I didn’t even sign. Anyway,” she adds, “I doubt he wants to marry me either.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he says, almost too quiet for her to hear.

She shrugs again as she pulls her chosen book down from the shelf and goes to sit on the sofa. To her surprise, he sits down at the other end of the piece of furniture - even more surprisingly, she finds that she doesn’t really mind. She asks, eager to change the conversation in the lull, “So, what were you reading? When I walked in.” She nods to the book he had left on the table.

He startles a little at the abrupt topic shift. “Oh, well. I noticed you have an amazing encyclopaediacollection, especially for science. I was reading the ‘I’ section.”

One corner of her mouth lifts in a smirk. “You found a whole library and you went for the encyclopaedia?”

“Well, what are you reading?” he defends.

He’s caught her there. She lifts her own book, a little guiltily, and reads aloud, “ _A History of Bigfoot_ , by A.R Milke.”

He stares at her for a moment, and then his face breaks out into a grin. She notices it reveals dimples in his cheeks, and makes his eyes crinkle in a way that, if she were inclined to think so, could be described as adorable. “Not what I would have pegged a princess to read.”

“I’m not just any princess,” she refutes, but with humour; for some reason she knows Barry is only teasing her, unlike so many others she had meant who really would be surprised.

But his face loses its joviality, and he looks away, twists his lips. “No, you’re not,” he agrees, quietly.

With that admission, the bubble of their own little world seems to shatter.

“Well,” Iris says delicately as she stands. “We both have the ball to go to tomorrow, and I know my lady-in-waiting will  _not_  be pleased if I have bags under my eyes.”

“Oh, yes, I should probably-” he stands as well, and gestures awkwardly to the book by the armchair. “I should probably put that back.”

“Yeah, ‘J’ can wait for tomorrow,” she teases.

He grins, letting an exhale of laughter through it. “Right.”

She leaves him, and the whole strange encounter, holding her book to her chest as she walks back to her room. It’s only when she’s out the library door that she realises she left her lantern down there - but to go back would be too embarrassing, so she navigates by the moonlight and her own practiced instinct.

At least going to the library managed to take her mind off tomorrow, and off Prince Allen.

-

Breakfast the next morning is awkward, which Wally delights in, as he does every time he’s not involved in family tension. It hasn’t missed her attention that her father just happened to have an early morning ‘thing’ in the town court to explain his absence at the table.

As Iris picks at her fruit, and Francine barely says anything with her oatmeal, Wally asks, “So, Iris _Allen_ , looking forward to today? Or, wait, would you hyphenate?”

Iris is sorely tempted to just throw the apple at her brother’s head.

“They’ll obviously hyphenate,” her mother replies, almost instinctively, and then avoids the sharp look Iris throws her, holding up her hands in surrender. “I’m just pointing out the West name has a long history.”

“Well, thank you for your input, but it’s not going to be Allen, or West-Allen, so there’s no point really discussing it!” Iris takes a pointed bite of her apple, as if that’ll finish the conversation.

Unfortunately, Wally has never responded to social cues like that, especially coming from her. “Are you going to have your honeymoon in Central City? Or will you go further, to get some real privacy for all that rampant heir-making - ah!” He narrowly dodges the half-eaten apple aimed directly for his face.

“Iris!” Francine scolds. “Future queens do _not_ throw fruit at their brothers.”

“They do when he’s being irritating,” Iris mutters darkly.

Her mother sighs. “Look, Iris. I really am sorry for not telling you earlier. We didn’t want you to worry.”

The fight goes out of her. She must admit, last night was spent being anxious enough that she wouldn’t have wanted to extend it; perhaps her parents did have a point. “It’s okay, I suppose,” she says.

Then she realises a way she can get back at Wally, and she turns to him with a gleam in her eye. “So, Wally, are you going to be bringing a date tonight? I know Linda is certainly going to be looking just lovely.”

Wally goes a deep red, and her mother’s pealing laughter fills the room.

The day goes by quickly - Iris talks to a grateful mother who had heard about the well, and she finishes her book from last night, though her mind flits from the pages to her own worries frequently. All too soon, it’s time to get ready for the ball and begin the undertaking of washing and plucking and dressing.

“Are you excited?” Linda asks from behind Iris, fastening the stays of her corset tightly. “You’re going to meet your betrothed!”

The maids all share a giggle. But Iris is disinclined to join on the joke - what has always been a teasing subject is now a sore one. She’s tense, and uncomfortable. “Linda, the corset’s too tight.”

Linda sounds confused. “It is? It’s the same as I always do it.”

Iris takes a deep breath and realises her friend is right - she can breathe fine. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m-”

Some of the other maids are obviously listening for gossip. Iris must’ve done something spectacular in a past life to deserve Linda, who lightly says, “I’ll bet it’s the extra scone you had at lunch. Not that I blame you, Cook’s baking is just  _heavenly_.”

“Yeah,” Iris says, feeling her momentary panic ebb. It’s natural to be a little nervous about a man she’s been hearing about for a whole life. “I heard she’s made wonderful things for the buffet tonight.”

Iris knows she should’ve looked out from her bedroom window when the Allen party arrived, or so she presumed from the sounds of the wheels and the horses and the chatter. But there’s a large part of her that wants to put off meeting Sir Allen for as long as possible - as long as he’s just a name heard through her childhood, similar to Rumpelstiltskin or Snow White, none of this is real. None of this she has to deal with.

The other maids leave as soon as the dress is done so Linda can do Iris’s hair. Iris sits down at her dresser, and surprised at how easily she can read the trepidation in her face in the mirror’s reflection. “God, I look awful,” she comments.

Linda rolls her eyes, reaching for the hot curling rags. “Oh no, you don’t.” At Iris’ unimpressed glare, she admits, “Alright, you look stressed. But still lovely.”

Iris fiddles with her gold necklace. “I shouldn’t be stressed. It’s just a formality.” But her tone lifts into a question and Linda clasps Iris’ shoulders gently. “Isn’t it?”

“Iris, the only thing tying you to Sir Allen is an aged piece of paper,” Linda assures. “Paper burns away. Love doesn’t.”

Iris reaches up to hold her best friend’s hand, grateful for her support in ways she doesn’t have words for. “I suppose you’re right.”

“As always,” Linda says, smugly, and the tension dissipates as Iris laughs.

Linda curls Iris’ hair in record time, tying up some of the waves up in a pretty style that Iris would never be able to manage by herself. She can hear the music from the ball wafting up through the castle, jovial tunes and pretty string instruments twanging.

As Princess, she’s supposed to be the last one to arrive, but she’s now itching to just get it over with. She’s been imagining what Sir Allen would look like for so long: is he short? Dark hair? Ugly? She’s tempted to ask Linda what he looks like, but decides against it, knowing that Linda’s perception of all eligible men is sorely bias thanks to her brother's very existence.

Finally, it’s time for her to make her entrance. Linda accompanies her to the huge wooden doors leading to the great hall, and goes first to make sure they are ready to announce her. There’s a knock a few minutes later to prepare her, and then the doors open.

She fixes her prettiest smile on her face, and starts forward, walking down the ornate staircase to the crowd watching her. She sees plenty of people she doesn’t recognise, as well as those she does. The ball has been decorated with the West colours of gold, and it looks beautiful, though she’s too preoccupied to really notice.

Her brother is waiting at the foot of the stairs, looking handsome in a golden suit. He holds out his arm and she takes it. Of course, the whole regal elegance is ruined when he leans in to whisper, “I honestly thought you were going to trip.”

Her smile doesn’t waver, but she does pinch him in retaliation.

The crowd parts, of its own accord, and her brother says, out loud to the waiting guests, as rehearsed, “Ladies and gentlemen, Princess Iris West is introduced to Prince Bartholomew Allen.”

Wait- Bartholomew?

Someone walks closer, as her brother’s arm slips away, and she slows her pace to stop in shock. Because she recognises that face, those green eyes, that tall stance and that unruly hair.

Prince Allen - no, Bartholomew - no,  _Barry_  - bends down on one knee, in front of the entire hall, and reaches for her hand.

She’s sorely tempted to wrench it from his grasp as he kisses it and says, with a twinkle in his eyes and a private smile, “Please, call me Barry.”


	2. Chapter 2

Oh, how she’d like to smack him.

But she takes his other hand as the first song starts and he stands. His hand goes around her waist to pull her close, their feet moving in the practised dance all children learn from young.

“Don’t hit me,” he whispers in her ear, though they’re both all smiles as they twirl elegantly in front of the richest and most powerful people within six hundred miles.

“You’d deserve it,” she says, not bothering to mask the fury in her voice. She should just get a massive banner she can take about with her: Iris West Does Not Like Being Lied To.  

She can hear the murmurings of all the people watching them, and tries to ignore her discomfort. It’s not only that the whole thing feels weirdly like a show, if not plain voyeuristic. She also can’t turn off the part of her brain wondering what Eddie will think when he hears about this. He has relatives here, she’s sure; Eobard at least will be here, considering how often he likes to visit the West castle.

She doesn’t even look at Barry’s face, and that’s not just because she’d have to actively look up to see him thanks to their absurd height difference. She’s going to need taller heels if they dance again- but no, they won’t, since she’s not going to dance again with someone who’d make fun of her so cruelly. She must have been stupid, to think his nervousness was genuine last night.

Finally, other people start joining in the dance as well, and she can focus a little less on keeping her smile fixed and pleasant.

“Iris, please believe me,” Prince Allen - or, Barry - starts, as they have more cover under the couples joining the centre of the dancefloor.

“I don’t believe anything you say,” she replies, rather tartly. “Actually.”

He spins her, letting out a frustrated sigh. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Did you enjoy it?” She hisses, his denial the final straw for her composure. Only fear of embarrassing her father stops her from storming off. “I bet you spent last night laughing to yourself about  _stupid_  Princess West.”

“No, I didn’t!” He sounds genuinely upset at the thought, but, well, she’s fallen for that before. “I swear to you.”

“Then why didn’t you just tell me you were Sir Allen last night?” They do a quick two-step that ends with him dipping her, pelvises pressed together briefly. As she straightens, she snaps, eyes directed at his, “To think I was actually nervous today about meeting a man I’d already met.”

“I was nervous too, alright?” Barry interjects, voice close to her ear as they turn and he leans down so their words don’t carry. “That’s the truth of the matter. I wasn’t making fun of you, honestly I wasn’t.”

The song stops, and they break apart. People around them start getting into formation for the next one, but they’re still, the rock the waves break against.

She fights not to cross her arms against her bodice, to give away her fury to everyone else in her body language. “You weren’t?”

He shakes his head. “No. Of course not. I just - it took me too long to realise you weren’t joking, or being weird, that you really didn’t know who I was. Then by the time I did, I didn’t know how to politely correct you.”

“So, what? You thought it would be best to wait until now, in front of the whole kingdom?”

He lets out a little huff. “I hardly looked very regal, or knightly. I wasn’t really sure you’d believe me even if I did say something.”

She twists her lips at that. “I did think you were one of the lower nobles,” she admits.

His face breaks out into a smile, small and hopeful. “See? I really was just there to look at your encyclopaedias.”

She chuckles. “Well, they do have an excellent scientific section.” She sighs, letting the anger out. “I thought- well, it doesn’t matter, either way.”

He holds out his hand, and says, as they re-join the dance, almost conversationally, “You know, you keep saying that.”

Her brow creases in confusion. “Pardon?”

“That it doesn’t matter. Have you already made up your mind about me?”

She owes him the truth. “Not about you,” she explains. “But yes, I have made up my mind.”

He looks puzzled. “What does that mean?”

“I- I love someone else.” She feels his hands twitch where they’re clasped with hers, and she feels she at least needs to explain herself. “It’s nothing personal, but I didn’t even know your first name until about ten minutes ago. And I know Sir Thawne, and-”

“Sir Thawne?” His tone is just a shade too polite as he asks, “You’re in love with him?”

“Yes.” She realises it’s the first time she’s put such a term definitively to Eddie - but she does love him, she’s sure of it. And if it will help convince this Barry to go back to Central City all the quicker, then so be it. “So I can’t marry you.”

“May I ask why?”

“Why I love him?” she clarifies, and he nods, eyes watching her face intently. But then, to Iris’ horror, she falters. Barry tilts his head a shade too knowingly for her taste, and she quickly hurries to say, “For starters, he’s handsome.”

“So are many people,” he points out, which is perhaps fair.

“He’s dignified.”

Barry’s eyebrows raise, enough that she can almost feel the scorn. “Pretty _and_  polite? What a catch.”

Just like that, he’s managed to irritate her again. “He’s also brave, and kind.”

“And you’re very loyal,” he comments neutrally.

The song changes, and she leaps at the opportunity to switch partners. Before she takes Lord Palmer’s arm, she casts one last look at Barry. “I’m also  _honest_ , Prince Allen,” she says, as coldly as she can realistically get away with. But his expression only seems appraising, as if she’s a puzzle he’s considering.

 -

Through navigating other conversations and people, she manages not to speak to him for the rest of the ball. Her father gives her pointed looks, and Wally is especially annoyed when, out of desperation, she pulls him away from Linda for a dance. Let people gossip - it doesn’t matter anyway, he’ll be gone soon enough.

She eventually manages to escape towards the end of the night, her feet and cheeks sore from dancing and forced smiling. She doesn’t usually mind balls, though she wouldn’t say she’s that much a fan of them, but her constant avoidance of Barry tires her. She says goodbye to the most important people at the ball, and then looks for her parents.

But while she may have managed to avoid Barry, there’s one person she can’t realistically ignore completely: Barry’s father.

She plasters her sweetest smile, and wanders over to Henry, who’s talking to her father. Her mother is nowhere to be seen. “Lord Allen,” she greets, curtsying.

“Oh, please, Iris, aren’t we past that?” But he still bends to kiss her palm, so perhaps tradition is more rigidly imposed in them than they’d like to admit. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Definitely,” she replies. “And yourself?”

“Oh yes. If there’s one thing your mother knows well, it’s how to throw an excellent event. You must remind me to tell you this one story, when we were all far,  _far_  younger- Well. Anyway,” he says, sharing a conspirator look with her. “I hope she feels better - it’s a shame she can’t reap the rewards of her own event.”

Iris quickly turns to her father. “Mother’s ill?”

“Caitlin thinks it’s the vomiting bug that’s been passing through town - she must have drunk the bad water at some point,” her father assures. “I wouldn’t worry darling, she just wanted to sleep it off.”

“Well, I think I’m going to go to bed soon,” Iris says, though she feels bad now for only leaving her brother and father to represent the family. “I’m feeling very tired.”

Her father’s expression shows how little he believes that excuse, but Henry is at least polite enough to pretend it’s reasonable. “Of course - it’s been a big day for you, I’m sure. It must have been good for you to finally meet Barry.”

“Yes,” she says, trying to keep her tone just pleasant enough to be neutral. “It certainly was nice to put a face to the name. And, uh, the name to the surname.”

Henry laughs at that. “At least you’re honest, Iris.” She’s glad he hasn’t seemed to take offense, which only seems to confirm her theory that Barry won’t really be bothered about the end of the arrangement either.

“I really do hope you’ve enjoyed your visit, Henry,” Iris says, and she hopes he knows she means it. He smiles, and she thinks he does.

She manages to escape to her bedchamber without further interruption. Only one last glimpse before she leaves the grand hall doors reveals Barry, watching her leave with an unreadable expression.

She’s just managed to pull all her curls out of their pins, about to take off her dress, when there’s a knock at the door. Assuming it’s Linda, come to talk to her about Barry and Wally and everything in between, she doesn’t hesitate before opening the wooden door, multitasking by taking out the final pin and letting her hair fall loose to her shoulders.

But it’s not Linda.

“Um,” Barry says, twisting his lips nervously. “Sorry - is this a bad time?”

She’s tempted to say yes, and shut the door, but the same instinct telling her that he was safe to sit with last night is also suggesting she hear him out. Things should be civil between them, at least.

“No,” she says. “I was just sleepy, so I left the ball early.”

“Right,” he replies, in a tone suggesting just how little he believes her. “Look, I wanted to apologise for yesterday properly.”

“You already apologised for yesterday,” she points out, still a little frosty.

“Regardless,” he presses. He’s fidgeting with something in his hands, so she can’t help but look at what it is. “I know you like reading, so. Here”

She eyes the book he thrusts at her. Too many relatives had heard or seen the same thing, and she had whole shelves filled with books she will never read. Books on romances and fairy-tales and calm fantasies with happy endings and clear plotlines. They all bore her. She likes history, and investigations, and science. She likes to learn and research, discover new perspectives and old ideas.

So it’s with unhidden trepidation and scepticism that she accepts the book from him. As she twists it around to examine the cover, she’s already schooling her expression into one of polite gratitude. Then she actually reads the title. “‘ _A Tale of Olde Conspyracies,’_ ” she reads aloud.

“It’s all essays by different authors on key historical events, but they’ve interpreted differently, or viewed it from a different angle,” Barry explains. “Like whether pixies could have been involved in famous battles, or whether kings committed suicide or were murdered.”

Her first instinct is to just slam the door in his face so she can start reading immediately, but she tampers the urge and asks, “How did you know I’d like this?

He shuffles his feet. “It’s a copy from our library at home. I remember my father mentioning something about how he always wanted to know what you were reading.”

Iris’ head snaps back in surprise. “He did?” She knew Henry paid actual attention to her, unlike many other relatives she knew, but she hadn’t expected that.

His lips quirk in a shy smile. “I hope this goes some way towards your forgiveness. I was rude earlier - I’m sure Sir Thawne is great.”

She clasps the book to her chest, and genuinely smiles for the first time all day. “Thank you, Sir- Barry.”

His smile widens.

Suddenly, they hear quick, heavy footsteps come down the hallway, and they both turn to the sound. It’s Wally, out of breath and running towards them.

“Wally?” Iris’ frown of confusion deepens as he gets closer and she reads the trouble of his expression. With a sinking heart, she asks, “What is it?”

“It’s Mother,” he pants, desperation lined around his dark eyes. “Iris, it’s Mother.“

At that moment, the world seems to spin. Barry flinches towards her as she sways, but she manages to hold herself by the doorframe. "No,” Iris says, not daring to look away from the floor. “She’s just sick.”

She hears the waver in his tone. “They- Caitlin thinks she’s been poisoned.”

“Where is she?” Barry asks, his own voice steady and firm.

“Her bedchambers.”

“Alright.” Iris feels fingers so gently under her chin, and then she’s looking into those green eyes. “Iris? Come on, let’s go see her. One step at a time, yeah?”

Somehow, that steels her. She blocks everything else, all the worst case scenarios and images bouncing around her brain. She follows her brother, his familiar shape in front of her though she knows the route well, with Barry just a few steps behind her, their feet fast on the stone. They whirl around corners and push past drunken guests meandering to their rooms until they reach the room. Iris doesn’t even have time to feel trepidation before Wally’s pushing open the large door and they’re stumbling inside.

She can smell the sickness before she even sees it. Her mother lies in the huge four-post bed, the thin veils loose and hanging, shielding the details but allowing the shape visible. Wally and Iris rush round to the other side, where the curtains have been drawn away, and they can see my other clearly.

Francine is one of the strongest women in the land, always bursting with vivid colour and tempered fire. Iris has always looked to her mother for strength, wisdom and inspiration.

But here, she has never seen her mother look so frail.

Her usually glowing skin is sweaty and sallow, and tinged grey with sickness. She’s clearly only sitting due to the propping-up of the many cushions behind her back, and the scent of bile is heavy in the air.

Iris is just about aware of her father, lying on Francine’s other side to clutch her hand and gently brush her sticky hair away from her forehead. Caitlin kneels in front of her, carefully holding a small vial to Francine’s lips and encouraging her to drink. Iris falls to her knees as well, reaching for her mother.

“Iris?” Francine whispers. “Iris, baby.”

“Mother,” Iris breathes, trying not to let the tears fall. Behind her, Wally stands, his legs a supportive wall behind her. She doesn’t know how he does it, but she will be eternally grateful for even that small support. “What’s happening?”

Francine opens her mouth, but something like a tremor seizes her, and she starts gasping for breath. Joe’s voice breaks as he whispers small soothings, little murmurs of kindness.

Caitlin answers for her: “We think it’s moon-bark poisoning. We have the antidote, but it-” Caitlin stops, takes a deep breath, and continues. “We might have administered it too late.”

“Everyone thought it was just the vomiting bug,” Wally says hollowly.

“It’s first symptoms were identical, yes,” Caitlin agrees. “I’m- I’m so sorry, but there’s nothing else we can do but wait to see if she’s strong enough to pull through this herself.”

The next few days are some of the worst Iris has ever lived through. She’d like to say they were a blur, yet every moment, every ragged breath, every held-back sob she can’t afford to let out, seems to drag out. Caitlin leaves a few hours after giving her diagnosis, with a hushed, “Call for me if anything changes. I’ll only be a few rooms away.” Barry must have left far earlier without her noticing, since only the West family remains.

Wally kneels next to Iris, and he rests his hand on top of Iris’s, which holds onto her mother’s just tight enough so as not to hurt her anymore. Her mother goes in and out of consciousness, until her eyes close in an uneasy sleep. Iris watches her stomach rise and fall.

Her father eventually falls asleep, just as daylight trickles in between the heavy curtains. She thinks Wally has followed suit until she hears him whisper, while their mother manages a few moments of sleep with an expression of obvious pain, “What are we going to do, Iris?”

She doesn’t have to ask what he means. She twists her lips. “We look after Father. And we look after each other. And we look after the kingdom.”

As more and more hours go by, the more they begin to hope. It might be Iris’s imagination, but she thinks that her mother is managing to sleep for longer bought. Late in the afternoon, Caitlin returns, gently knocking on the door before edging her head around the door.

“How is she?”

“Her breathing seems better?” Iris whispers, not wanting to wake her parents up. “But I don’t-” To her horror, her voice cracks, and Caitlin’s face creases in sympathy.

“That’s a good sign, Iris,” she assures, stepping closer into the room. Iris shuffles out of the way, her cramping legs protesting, so Caitlin can check her mother’s forehead and pulse. “It’s a really good sign, in fact, that she’s still breathing at all.”

The factual nature of it steals Iris’s breath away for a moment, at the thought that right now, her mother could not be breathing. Luckily, Caitlin doesn’t notice, too busy wetting a cloth with cold water and placing it across Francine’s forehead. The sensation wakes her, and she murmurs, dazedly, “Wha-”

“Here,” Caitlin whispers, as she holds up a different vial to the queen’s lips. “Drink some of this.”

Her mother obliges, and she obviously struggles to swallow, but god, isn’t Iris just grateful that she can move her lips at all? She reaches out with her other hand and grasps her brother’s, and by the way his grip tightens so hard she feels her bones bulge, she’d guess he feels the same.

Another night passes, and Francine manages to swallow down water. Iris leaves for a bathroom break, no longer feeling that if she leaves the room, her mother’s chest will stop moving. As she leaves, closing the door behind her, she startles at the hunched shape just visibly in the dim light.

“Barry?” She asks, her voice a little raspy from disuse.

He jolts awake, and scrambles to his feet, unfolding those long limbs and blinking rapidly against the remnants of sleep. “Iris?”

She notices the clothes he’s wearing. “Have you been here the whole time?”

He looks away, and that’s answer enough.

“You- you didn’t have to,” she says, and she wants to, desperately, hug him, to let him know what that unnecessary act of support means.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says, simply, with a small shrug, like it should be obvious. It seems so long ago that she’d disliked him so strongly, even that he’d given her a book to apologise with.

She taps down on the urge, and stays with her back to the door. She rakes a hand through her hair, tangled from the long hours and stress. “Mother’s doing as well as can be expected, I suppose. But, we don’t-” Her voice cracks on a half-released sob, and she claps her hand over her mouth to hold it in. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says. She can’t believe he’s still here, to see her in this moment of terrible vulnerability. Another sob tries to escape, and he reaches for her, and she sinks down to the floor with him, and he holds her as she finally allows herself to cry.

-

Another day passes, then another. Most of the guests leave, or so Iris imagines - she spends almost all of her time by her mother’s bedside. She and her brother take turns in leaving for the bathroom or to get small bites of food. Their father doesn’t leave her bed.

Barry doesn’t leave, either. Neither does Henry - she presumes it’s because Henry has always been close with both her parents. She knows she’s heard stories about Francine and Nora growing up together, both from the same kingdom in the south.

On the third day, she’s leaving to change her clothes when Henry is waiting for her outside. “Iris,” he says, his face grave. She didn’t think there could be any more bad news. “We need you in the war room.”

She changes her dress and splashes water on her face and under her arms, sprays perfume across her body and has to leave her hair curly and down to her shoulders. It’s not the most ideal circumstances under which she enters the war room for the first time by herself, without her father’s supervision, but it will have to do.

Inside is a large, round table, the wood of which is engraved with a map of the kingdom. Around it sit the castle’s most trusted advisors, ranging from roles involving the military to agriculture. They all stand when she enters, and she dismisses the formality with a wave of her hand. Henry is there as well - he stands, with little option as all the chairs are designated, and however much she trusts him, he is not actually a part of their government. “What is it?” She asks. “Have you found who poisoned the queen?”

(If she refers to Francine as her formal title, rather than by name, then maybe she can just about disassociate enough to get through this meeting.)

The Advisor of Health shakes her head. “I’m afraid not, Princess. Although this is related.”

“What is it?”

Everyone looks to Captain Singh, Chief of the Royal Guard, who says, “Because we were not able to identify the suspect, we were forced to release all the guests from the night of your birthday, as the law commands.”

Iris’s facial muscles twitch as she fights to keep her expression neutral. She hadn’t even thought that the most likely source would be those visiting the castle. She had been too focused on her mother to imagine anything further than a shadowy figure tiptoeing through the corridors. She feels sick to think that she could have talked with her mother’s attempted murderer, could have danced with them. That Francine had personally invited them…

“We’re still processing information, and what I’m about to tell you isn’t common knowledge, but-” Singh takes a deep inhale. “We found the body of a servant, who we believe was waiting at the ball judging from their clothes, in the north quarter of the castle.”

Iris leans on the back of her chair, arms ramrod straight to support her stance. But she maintains eye contact with Singh as she asks, “Who?”

“Stacy Conwell.”

The name rings heavy on her as she recognises it, can easily picture the blonde with her easy smile and chatter. Iris didn’t know her that well, but she’d always seen her around the castle, and she was the same age as Linda and herself. “Do we know why?” Though she suspects the answer.

“We think she was the one who put the poison in your mother’s food or drink.”

For an awful, evil flash of a moment, Iris is glad that Stacy is dead.

But she pushes away the hatred to focus as Singh continues, “But- we think she was being either blackmailed or bribed. We interviewed her mother in the nearby village - apparently Stacy had been receiving a large amount of mail, and was once walked home by a handsome blond man, quite a bit older than her. Mrs Conwell just thought her daughter was being courted.”

“Anything to suggest she was being blackmailed?” Iris asks, not sure which would be the easier answer to bear.

“Her brother is sick, and Stacy had been trying to ask for a raise for work in the kitchen,” Singh says. “We definitely think it was someone else’s idea, and they’re the ones who killed her.”

“So we’re looking for a murderer, not just an attempted one,” Iris confirms, her voice steeled.

“There’s more,” Singh says, and he nods to Mckenna, Advisor of Domestic Affairs.

“There’s already unrest in the Kingdom,” she explains, looking stressed. “Someone threw a brick in the window of a shop known to be part of a Central City franchise.”

Iris frowns. “But why-” Her expression clears. “They’re blaming one of the Central City guests for the poisoning?”

“Stacy was originally from Central City,” Singh points out.

Singh speaks before Iris can, before she can hotly protest the correlation. “Civilians always tend to leap to their own conclusions, especially because we haven’t named a suspect yet. And, well, what with all the pre-existing suspicions…”

Iris waits for someone to clarify what those suspicions are exactly, but they all look uncomfortable. She’s about to come out and demand someone just says it, but it’s Henry who finally speaks, a deep, tired exhale, “They’re talking about my late wife, Iris.”

Almost thirteen years ago, the continent was rocked when Nora Allen was killed, stabbed in her bedchambers. Henry swore to anyone and everyone that it wasn’t him, that there were witnesses who could place him elsewhere in the castle for the whole evening. But kings could pay off who they wanted to, and no other suspect was found, so suspicion spread like a disease.

The Advisor of Trade casts a dark look towards Henry, fleeting, almost so fast that Iris doesn’t see it, and she realises that what they say is true. Already, mistrust and hatred has seeped this far into the government, and as news travels, so will that anger. She can’t have that, can’t allow the hatred to germinate into something more powerful.

“The last time there was this level of suspicion between our territories,” the Advisor of Trade says, his tone weighted with how deliberately he doesn’t look at Henry. “Our trade suffered greatly. Merchants wouldn’t buy from Central City, and tried to increase prices and their own when selling to City merchants. Whatever our political stance will be, I must warn you that our economy is heavily dependent on theirs.”

That makes sense – not only is Central City the neighbouring territory to the West Kingdom, but Iris has read about how much the West mines send to Central City, and how much the land-locked City relies on the West port.

“But you were acquitted,” she says to Henry, firm in her resolve. Her father had always believed Henry, and that was enough for her. And the economy had recovered then, it could recover now.

“I’m the King,” he says, sounding more defeated than she’s ever head. “I was never going to be found guilty by a court of my own country, even if I actually was.”

“But…” she falters. What can she possibly say?

“Princess, things might be worse this time around,” Singh points out carefully. “Suspicion was one thing, but now people think there’s a pattern, and it’s turned to prejudice.”

Henry rubs at his chin, the bags under his eyes prominent as he suggests, “Maybe- if they want a suspect, maybe I should confess. Barry’s old enough to rule, perhaps-”

“No!” Iris exclaims, stricken by the very idea of Henry putting himself as a martyr, and leaving his own kingdom in chaos and distrust for the sake of theirs. “No, okay? We’ll think of something.” She looks to her advisors pointedly for, well, their advice.

“We could arrest troublemakers?” Singh suggests, but Iris is quick to shake her head.

“Only if they’re breaking the law. Free speech is something my father will never compromise on.”

She catches approval in Singh’s expression, and it gives her confidence, lets her mind work on the problem rather than panicking about how the advisors perceive her.

“What about if we blame Stacy until we know more?” she thinks aloud, though she feels cold for suggesting it. As much as she might hate Stacy for being the one to deliver the poison, she can’t help but reserve most of her white-hot rage for the one who ordered it. “It was a one-off event.”

“That might work,” Singh says, not sounding particularly convinced.

“But there’s still going to be discontent,” Iris finishes for him, thinking out loud. “People will want to know who killed her, and people are just going to be suspicious of us as well.”

Her mind is whirring, and there’s the barest spark of an idea in her mind. It’s the last option she wants to try, but it might just work.

She pushes off from the back of the chair. “Any more ideas, come see me. I will be at my mother’s bedside, but I need a solution by tomorrow. I will also be thinking on the matter.” With that, she leaves, all too aware of every minute she stays away from Francine.

But all the ideas the advisors come up with come up short, varying from blaming both Francine’s poisoning and Stacy’s murder on a tribe they’ve had animosity for years with to covering up Stacy’s death altogether.

Nothing sits right with Iris, and she continues to think as she stays by her mother. Wally also feels more safe to leave occasionally, bringing back food for himself and Iris. They try to get their father to eat, but he’ll only have broth, and even then only when Francine manages to take small sips of her own.

Iris has never had power like this; though she’s glad everyone unanimously knows not to bother her father, the weight of leadership is heavy, especially when it’s come about so suddenly. She’s been training her whole life - yet she thought she’d still have years to learn more, to prepare. Though she knows this is only temporary, there’s an uneasy part of her that knows things are never going to be the same again.

By the next night, she’s pacing outside her parents’ bedchambers, schemes and solutions bouncing around her mind like tennis balls. She finally gives in to the clamouring thoughts, and lets out a frustrated groan, pushing her palms against the windowsill and resting her weight on them, rocking forward a little with the momentum. She takes in a deep breath, lets it all go.

“Are you okay?”

She could laugh, if the situation wasn’t so serious. It’s Barry. She hasn’t seen him since she was sobbing on his shoulder, embarrassingly out of control. She presses her lips together before turning to face him. “Kind of,” she says. She hesitates - could now be her chance? “Barry- I’m going to ask you something pretty crazy right now.”

“Anything,” he says, perfectly seriously and she wants to laugh again.

She bites back the urge, but she can’t hold back the hysterical quiver of a smile as she asks, “Marry me?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently I have no sense of chapter length consistency.

 

Barry’s eyes go almost comically wide with shock. “What?”

“I know,” she says, and she starts pacing again, from wall to window and back again, running her hands through her hair. “I know, it’s bat-shit crazy to even ask you. After all I complained about having an arranged marriage, after Eddie-” She falters. “Oh, god, Eddie.”

“So you don’t want to do this,” he says.

She sets her jaw. “It’s not about what I want, it’s about what’s best for our kingdoms. There’s widespread panic right now - our people are blaming yours, and soon enough, you civilians will turn against us. That’s only going to escalate, and I won’t allow it.”

“I don’t want that either, obviously. But I don’t- wait.” His eyes narrow in speculation as he considers her. “You think our marriage will, what? Unite the kingdoms?”

“Our parents are still the actual rulers,” she points out. “It’s best to do it now while it would really only be symbolic. Depending on how things stand, and my- my mother’s health, we could be divorced within a few years.” She ignores how she falters on the mention of Francine.

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Right. That’s how easy you could dust off a marriage, huh?”

“That’s not fair,” she snaps, louder than she’d intended, as a servant comes down the corridor carrying bed sheets. She huffs, and grabs at his wrists, pulling him away and down an empty alcove. “I’m doing this for our kingdoms.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles. She fights the ridiculous urge to smooth it back down. “No, you’re doing it for mine. You know it would benefit Central City more than you. We’re the smaller kingdom, and it’s us that your people are angry at.”

“But it’s unfair for them to be!” Iris says, gesturing with an angry hand. “It’s leftover prejudice from- from…” Here, she falters.

Barry gives her a weak smile. “You can say it,” he says, and she hates the look in his eyes. “The fact everyone thinks my father killed my mother.”

Iris has to avert her gaze, can’t bear the defeated look of someone who’s heard the same gossip their whole life. “I don’t believe it,” she says quietly.

“But everyone else does.” He says, finally, as if finishing the rest of her sentence. He shakes his head. “No, I won’t do it.”

“It would help you, and your father, wouldn’t it?” she persists. “Think of your people.”

“Yes,, but-” Barry looks so tired. “I couldn’t ask you-”

“You’re not. If anything, I’m asking  _you_. Both our nations would be disrupted by the hatred - this is the best way to keep the peace.” As she says it, her determination only grows. She knows this is the right thing to do, feels it in her gut. “We don’t even have to consummate.”

His ears go scarlet red, and she realises her callousness.

“I mean, just for an easy annulment,” she hurries to add. “Though we’ll probably have to pretend we have for the time being. Until the kingdoms have settled. And before we’re respectively coronated, certainly.”

“So, before three years, before my father abdicates his throne to me,” he says, obviously thinking about the logistics. It’s the first time she’s seen him with something like a regal air - he might have been dressed for it at her birthday ball, but this, right here, shows her he has the mind of a ruler. Then he seems to remember his original stance on the subject. “Only if we were to do it, of course.”

“We could do it,” she persists. “We both want this resolved before we take our thrones, don’t we?”

He looks both ways, as if looking for any eavesdroppers, and then lowers his voice, saying, carefully, gently, “But- Iris, it really might have been a Central City guest. Are you sure?”

She is. She knows her mother, even if this was her final day on this earth, would never want her name to be used in hatred or violence.

“The kingdom comes first,” she replies, simply.

-

The next step, naturally, is to talk to her father. As soon as her mother is eating by herself, and staying awake for longer periods of time, however, he’s almost immediately stolen away by other matters, other advisors and people demanding his time. She needs to speak with him quickly, before he putsinto action a different solution. She doesn’t know how this attack might have affected him.

So she waits - for a few hours. Then, she goes to the throne room, and bides her time. As one set of advisors comes out of the large doors, she sneaks inside, ahead of Singh, whose protests fall on deaf ears as she shuts the huge doors behind her and slides the bolt shut.

“Iris?” Her father’s voice carries across the large room, and she turns. The throne room is huge, big enough for several carriages to line up wall to wall, or, such as thirty-five years ago, around two hundred people for a coronation.

“Father,” she greets.

“What are you doing?” He asks. “Did you- is that Captain Singh outside?”

“I need to talk to you,” she says quickly, striding down the carpet laid straight across the stone and ignoring the raised eyebrows of his few security knights.

He exhales. “I know. I need to talk to you as well.”

That stops her. “You do?” Had he found out already? She hadn’t even told Linda and Wally yet.

There’s a long pause, and then they both speak at once:

“Your mother is going away for a while.”

“I’m going to marry Prince Allen.”

Father and daughter stare at each other as they process each other’s words, and then, together, ask, “ _What_?”

“Mother’s going away? Where?” Iris demands.

“I thought you didn’t like Barry!”

“Don’t you think it’s safer for her to stay in the kingdom?”

“What about Sir Thawne?”

“When’s she leaving? She can’t even sit up by herself yet!”

Joe holds out his hands, and Iris falls silent. “Right. One thing at a time,” he says, letting out a gust of a breath. “I’ve recommended your mother goes away to recover. She’ll be staying with her sister’s family, in the southern villages. This experience scared all of us, Iris.”

Iris softens. “I know - I’m sorry, it was just a shock.” Then she frowns. “Won’t you be going with her?”

“I have to stay here,” he says. “To look after the kingdom - with everyone so troubled…” He trails off in thought, and she knows he’s thinking of the same unrest she was envisioning.

Sensing her opportunity, she says, “Father, that’s why Prince Allen and I have discussed going through with our betrothal. It’s already arranged, and we think it’s the best idea for our kingdoms. I need your permission.”

He shakes his head. “Iris, this isn’t your responsibility-”

“Yes, it is,” she disagrees, firmly. “I’ll be monarch in four years now, Father. I’m not just a princess, I’m the heir apparent.”

He twists his lips, and exhales. “It’s so easy to forget that, sometimes,” he admits into the quiet.

She spreads her hands, trying to remember all her persuasion and diplomacy training. “The trouble you’re talking about, that’s what we believe this marriage could solve. It would prove to everyone we’re united, that we don’t hold all of Central City responsible.”

“Was this his idea?” But before she can reply, he exhales. “No, of course it wasn’t. This is exactly the type of thing you’d come up with.”

“We’re betrothed anyway,” she points out.

He narrows his eyes. “You’re about to try and say this was my idea originally, aren’t you?”

“Well, you did sign the contract in the first place,” she says, a shade too innocently. “I thought this is what you and Henry wanted.”

“Not like this,” he says. He frowns, and seems to choose his words carefully as he asks, “You’re not doing this because you are feeling pressured, are you? Iris, baby, you know I would never force you into a marriage.”

“You’re not,” Iris assures. “Father, I promise, this our idea. Our consensual, responsible idea. And we can divorce later, when things have settled down. You know this will help things.”

“It will,” he allows.

“So I have your permission?” Iris says.

He takes a deep breath, and says, “Yes, gods help me, you have my permission.”

The ceremony of the marriage is quite simple, really. All Iris has to do is treat it as a diplomatic meeting, albeit one with a few more flower arrangements than she’s used to. She’s standing in her bedchambers as her maids bustle around her, adjusting her hair and make-up and dress. (She hasn’t even seen the dress, yet. Some part of her has been avoiding looking at it, laid across her study table as the maid’s double check it for stains or creases.)

She’s looking in the mirror at her own reflection, trying to dredge up some kind of emotion - perhaps she’s compartmentalised this too much? - when the door opens, and in the glass she sees her mother walk in.

It’s the first time she’s smiled in days as she gasps in excitement, and spins to grab her mother in a quick hug. “You’re walking!”

“I wouldn’t be napping through your wedding, now would I?” Francine hugs her daughter just as tightly.

Iris knows her mother is very deliberately not asking if she wants to go through with this; she can sense it in the pause between her mother’s words, in the way she holds onto the embrace a little longer than she usually would.

When she pulls away, Iris is surprised to see Francine’s eyes a little wet. “Oh, come on, Mother,” Iris says, with a weak smile. “Don’t get emotional, you’ll make me cry as well.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Francine says, sniffing a little. “Right, onto business. Why on earth are you not wearing my dress yet?”

“Your dress?” Iris repeats in confusion.

“Did you not recognise it?” Iris takes another look as the maids bring the white satin dress to her. “They’ve been adjusting it to your measurements all day! Honestly, Iris, you need to show more gratitude to what these ladies do for you.”

“Oh,” Iris says, quietly, lost in her own thought.

As they slip it on over her head, and her mother makes up for Iris’s negligence by complimenting the maids on their work, Iris stays silent.

It fits beautifully - she’s seen the oil portrait of her parents from their wedding day, but the picture had faded into muscle memory without much further examination, a constant in her journey between the front meeting room and her mother’s study. It falls gracefully down Iris’ figure, a little volume to add grace from the waist, and lace across the bodice and down the skirt. Its small gold trimmings show off its expense, if the elegant fabric wasn’t enough of a clue. When they add the veil, complete with a ruby tiara and falling like a waterfall behind her shoulder blades, Iris looks so much like her mother she could cry.

Her mother actually is crying, but smiling as well. Iris hopes Francine isn’t disappointed in her, and she looks at Francine’s mirrored eyes in the glass to assess them. But she only finds understanding, and contentedness, which seems the best Iris could hope for.

For a royal wedding, the guest list is relatively small due to such short notice.  The most important people are here, anyway - as far as Iris is concerned, all they need is a priest and some legal witnesses. But common manners and etiquette requires invitations at least be sent out to all the most important people from the surrounding areas. Everyone from the Wayne Kingdom to Krypton is here, despite only visiting a couple of weeks ago for Iris’ birthday.  
  
She supposes it’s nice to see friendly faces in the pews as the wedding music welcomes her walk down to the aisle, but she can barely focus on them when, waiting for her, is Barry.

He looks handsome, certainly; she’d have to be blind not to appreciate that. But she’s been imagining Eddie waiting for her so fiercely in these past months that it’s an odd sight. He’s wearing a red and gold suit, the exact shade of the rubies in her tiara and the roses in her hands. It must be a beautiful wedding from the outside.

But she can see how nervous he is, can see it in the way his eyes seem to bore straight into hers, like if she turned tail and ran away, he’d be relieved. But they’d discussed it again, with their parents present, and again after that: this is a good decision. It’s good for their people, and it’s good for their parents, and it will be good for them, when they ascend to their thrones.

Her father kisses her cheek, her veil pushed behind her tiara and down her hair, and lets her go. She steps up to the slightly higher stage, and faces her betrothed. Her husband-to-be. Her heart starts beating very fast-

And then he takes her hand.

Of course he does, it’s part of the ceremony. But something about it sets her at ease, and she knows it’s the same for him by the way his eyes change infinitesimally, the way they soften around their edges. It’s something like, at least they’re doing this crazy thing together. As if this may be the worst decision of their lives, but they’re making it together.

A part of Iris wonders, madly, if this is what her mother and father are talking about when they say their marriage is about teamwork.

The priest goes through the motions, and Iris says what she’s told to, but she doesn’t look away from Barry. They only break hand contact to slide the rings on each other’s fingers, and even that small moment makes Iris feel as if she’s lost her anchor.

“I do,” says Barry, and his green eyes betray no uncertainty.

“I do,” says Iris, and she thinks that if she had to do this with anyone in the world, she could certainly do worse than Barry.

Almost two minutes into the reception, Iris loses Barry to some diplomats from Starling Kingdom - she thinks she recognises Lord Oliver Queen, but she can’t imagine he’d have much in common with Barry. Regardless, she’s left feeling adrift, accepting congratulations she’s not sure she’s earned and trying to protect her dress from the wine people keep giving her to toast with.

They eventually sit down for the banquet, with, somehow, the hundred and forty nobles all squeezing around the square-shaped table. Iris finds she doesn’t have much of an appetite as Henry and then Francine give their speeches, as is tradition. Their words wash over her, and she’s slowly starting to realise that this is it: she’s  _married_. She’s never going to be single again – she’s going to be a wife, and then an ex-wife, and then, hopefully, a wife again.

Her tension must be obvious, because as she stares at her full plate, she feels the feather-light touch of a hand on her wrist. Instinctively, she twists her own hand to entwine her fingers and clutch at it like a lifeline. It takes the next moment for her to realise it’s Barry, and he’s looking as tense as she is, staring straight ahead.

Teamwork, she thinks again.

They make it through the rest of the ceremony like that. It’s like a weird secret, holding hands through the banquet and then into the dances and socialising of the next door ballroom, even though it’s actually the most expected thing for two newly-weds in love.

The event runs through the afternoon and into the evening, and Iris doesn’t let go of Barry. She still doesn’t regret their decision, she really doesn’t, but…well, it’s not what she’d imagined for her wedding, that’s all.

Eventually, enough people start leaving that it’s acceptable for Iris to give the signal to her father, who starts tapping his glass. People turn to watch him immediately – her father has always been able to easily command a room, whether at a military meeting or his eldest child’s wedding. “Please give it up one last time for the happy couple!” he implores, raising his glass.

Everyone claps and whistles, and Iris and Barry wear matching, appropriately bashful smiles as they make their escape.

They still don’t let go of each other as they are escorted by a guard to Iris’s bedchamber. Iris only falters when they reach it and she realises they both have to go in. She feels Barry’s hand tighten around hers as if he’s had the same thought.

She remembers her own words, their own agreement: “ _We don’t have to consummate.”_

But the rest of the world has to think they have. So, they enter, and close the door behind them.

Her maids have either been very thoughtful or very annoying by leaving rose petals scattered artfully around her room and lighting perfumed candles. They’ve also tidied from the mess left behind from her getting ready, which is commendable in itself.

She lets go of Barry, his grip having gone slack. She takes a step away from him, looking at anything that isn’t him or the bed, which never seemed that large before.

“I could sleep on the floor,” Barry offers, and she turns to see him awkwardly scratching the back of his neck.

“No, it’s fine,” she says, because while she might feel uncomfortable, there’s no way the cold stone floor is a fair compromise. “There’s plenty of room.”

“Right.” He twists his lips ruefully, and says, “Well, we did it.”

“Go us,” Iris agrees, finding herself smiling despite herself. She holds out her closed fist, and greets, “Prince West-Allen.”

Barry returns the gesture, their knuckles knocking gently together. “Princess West-Allen.”

They share a private kind of smile. It’s only the first night they’ll have to share a bed – as soon as the guests leave, Barry will move into the chambers next door, for both his privacy and for Iris’. The rooms have a door in between, so to anyone who might see Barry go to bed, they’ll see him going into Iris’ chambers, keeping up the charade.

Iris takes off her tiara and veil, setting it gently on one of the tables. She twists her arms round to try and unclasp her dress, but it’s too fiddly for her to do at the awkward angle.

She’s just starting to worry she’ll have to go get Linda as discreetly as possible, when fingertips gently brush over her twitching hands, halting them. It’s Barry, close enough that she breathes in the scent of him and his warmth radiates against her skin, to the point that she feels warm as he slowly moves down her back, carefully unhooking each clasp all the way down to the base of her spine.

She’s wearing her nightdress underneath, a special silk piece intended for tonight, so she wordlessly lets the fabric drop and spool around her feet. She steps out, and turns.

Barry’s staring at her with something unidentifiable glittering in his eyes, something more than just the reflections of the scattered candles. Silently, he reaches for his own jacket, slipping it off and draping it carefully over the near armchair. He starts to unpick at his cravat, and Iris looks away, worried seeing his shirtless torso at this point will be the final straw against the careful mental barrier she’s put up.

She bends for her dress and picks it up, not wanting it to crease as she folds it next to her tiara. She hears fabric against fabric, and knows that Barry’s shirt is off. The temptation to look is strong – but he’s owed privacy, and she goes towards the bed, extinguishing the candles on her path. Their smoke drifts towards the ceiling, intensifying the smell of violets already present.

Climbing underneath the sheets, she turns to face the wall, a painting of a lily pond looking back at her. She feels the bed dip as Barry gets in as well, presumably just wearing his undergarments.

“Goodnight,” she whispers, almost without thought.

There’s a pause, and her stomach twists as she thinks he’s not going to say it back. But then he whispers, into the dark only broken by the faint noises of the continuing party below them, “Goodnight, Iris.”

It takes her longer than she’d like to fall asleep.

-

In the morning, she wakes up resting on a warm, bare chest, rather than her own pillow. An arm curls around her back.

She flinches, and rolls back to her side – the quick movement wakes up Barry, who comes to consciousness with a hard snort and his eyes flashing open. His arm is still underneath her ribs, so she sits up, looking anywhere else. Judging by the light streaming through the windows, she’d guess it’s at least midday, an hour she hasn’t slept through since she was pubescent.

“Sorry,” she says, with an awkward laugh. “I must have been crushing your arm.”

Instead of replying, Barry clears his throat, and says, “I’ll go for breakfast. Do you want anything brought up?”

“No, thank you,” Iris replies, hugging her knees to her chest.

He pulls on the clothes from yesterday, keeping turned away from her, leaving the jacket and combing a quick hand through his sleep-tangled chestnut hair. He looks at her with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before he hurriedly escapes. Wearing the same clothes as yesterday, she can only imagine what kind of looks and whispers he’s going to get as he walks through the castle. But then she supposes, that’s the whole point.

She leans over and tugs at the tassel that connects to the bell in Linda’s chambers. She hates using the mechanism, and would usually go to see her, or have prearranged times for Linda to come to her. But she knows Linda will understand.

With a few moments, Linda is walking through the door, carrying a tray with hot tea and some papers on it. She gives Iris a sympathetic smile. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Iris says lightly.

Linda only levels a look at her before Iris’ face crumples and she hides it in her hands. “It’s so weird,” she admits.

“It is for any new couple,” Linda tries, setting down the tray just below Iris feet on the bed, and then sitting delicately next to it.

“Any real couple,” Iris says, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. Linda’s the only person outside the two families who knows the marriage’s sham, so

“You can’t think like that, it’ll drive you mad,” Linda replies, the voice of reason as ever.

She’s right – time to stop feeling sorry for herself, and time to get on with things. Iris nods to the papers. “What’s this?”

“There’s a letter for you,” Linda says, holding the cream-coloured envelope in her hand. Iris’ heart leaps as she catches a glimpse of the seal, a deep blue that the Thawne household use for their badges and official documents. She takes the letter and rips it open with twitching fingers, her heart speeding. Eddie must have heard of her marriage - she almost doesn’t want to know what he thinks. How can she explain it to him?

But as she reads, it becomes obvious that the news hasn’t reached him yet. She imagines it won’t have been long after he sent this until it did, but the time lag gives her his words free of any suspicion or hurt.

_Dearest Princess West,_

_Perhaps this is too forward, but I already miss you. I keep hearing about problems in the local village, and wondering how long it will be until you march down and fix it._

_My friend is much more ill than I previously thought - I might not be back for a while, which pains me. A selfish part of me hopes you are missing me, but do not worry if you are. I endeavour to be back in Thawne Manor by Christmas._

_I am so sorry to hear about your mother - how is she? As of writing this, I understand she is thought to survive the attack. If I was there, I would not rest until the perpetrator was found. Please pass on my well-wishes to the Queen. And I hope you are doing well, and your birthday was not completely ruined by such an evil act. One of the servants here is from Central City, and I am watching him closely to check his loyalty._

_News is slow to travel here, as there are few house servants left, and my friend’s family are obviously too worried to leave to the village. As for myself, I am stuck inside all day and all night sorting out the paperwork and documents - I certainly haven’t done this much arithmetic since I was tutored as a boy!_

_Please write back to me soon. I have enclosed the address. Tell me about how Wally is doing with his knight training, and how your mother and father are, and most of all, how you are._

_Yours, no matter the distance between us._

_Edward Thawne_

His signature is so familiar it aches, the curls and swishes of his name in royal blue ink. A drop falls and smudges the ’T’ - it is only then that Iris realises she is silently crying. She feels Linda’s arms curl around her back. “What does he say?” Linda asks quietly.

“He doesn’t know yet,” Iris breathes, almost in disbelief, in between hitching breaths. “How am I supposed to tell him? He asked me to do one thing, Linda, to wait for him, and-” she breaks off, her hands trembling as she holds the letter.

“You did what was your duty,” Linda says, though her eyes look worried. “If he really loves you, he’ll understand.”

“I have to tell him the truth,” Iris says, staring down at his handwritten words.

She feels Linda stiffen, before she gently says, “Are you sure that’s a good idea? We don’t know how he’ll react.”

“He has to know I still love him,” Iris says, her resolution strengthening as she speaks. “He won’t tell anyone, I’m sure of it.”

It takes several drafts before Iris can find the right words, and she crumples up the unsatisfactory pieces of parchment, at one point throwing them at her wall behind her writing desk, so they bounce off and land on the floor. She picks most of the scrunched up balls, though she thinks a few have rolled irretrievably underneath one of her bookcases.

She eventually manages to compose a letter she thinks maintains the balance between sincere emotion and rational coherency. She’s not sure how Eddie would react to grand speeches of love, but she can’t just state the facts.

_Dear Sir Thawne,_

_I imagine the news must have reached you, and I want to explain myself. It is true, I have married Prince Allen. I didn’t wait, like you asked and like I promised. I don’t know how you can forgive me, but I won’t be able to ever forgive myself if I don’t at least try to explain my decision._

_You wanted to know how my mother is – she’s recovering, which we are thankful for in every second that passes. But the attack has caused unrest between Central City and our kingdom. I’m sure you know the kind of rumours that were already existing, but an attempted assassination has acted like a spark to a fire._

_I was already betrothed to Prince Allen, and I could never live with myself if I didn’t do what was best for my kingdom. I can’t allow unrest, or mistrust, or prejudice. Is it not my duty to prevent it, however I can? The marriage has shown unity between our realms, and I truly believe it will heal some of the wounds that have been ripped open._

_But you have to know this; I don’t care for Prince Allen any more than a solution to a problem. Perhaps that is harsh – he seems a good man. But my heart still belongs to you, and I believe it always will._

_I would understand if you never want to speak to me again. I only hope you have enough memory of caring for me that you do not tell anyone else this information – I’m sure you know how terrible it would be if the truth came out._

_Yours regretfully,_

_Iris_

Linda manages to keep her features from too disapproving when Iris asks her to post the letter in town, but she certainly doesn’t seem happy about it. Iris would much prefer to send the letter herself, paying extra to use a messenger rather than a carrier pigeon, but she’s kept busy seeing off she and Barry’s wedding guests.

Despite spending most of the day conversing with their guests, from all corners of the continent, and receiving all their wedding guests, the newlywed couple manage to avoid saying a single word to each other.

Iris is feeling particularly sore after receiving Eddie’s letter, and she suspects Barry is feeling especially awkward after how they woke. It doesn’t help matters that people keep making thinly-veiled jokes and innuendos after their ‘wedding night fun, and Barry somehow goes red, from the ears across his cheekbones, every single damn time.

Iris would much rather be spending the time with her mother before she leaves – it’s only a few days before Francine leaves to visit her sister, and most of the castle is busy preparing for her departure. Servants pack food, maids pack clothes, and the stable boys ready the horses.

So it’s not that she deliberately doesn’t tell her parents or Wally about her decision, because she feels perfectly justified; it’s just everyone’s obviously very busy, and she doesn’t want anything else for her father to worry about. That’s all. Really.

Iris doesn’t get much of a chance to speak to her mother until a few days later, the morning before Francine leaves. She’s in the drawing room, looking over her notes on noted increases in bandit activity, when she hears someone clear their throat, and her chin darts up to see her mother standing in the doorway. “Am I disturbing you?” Francine asks.

“Oh, no, not at all!” In her hurry to stand, Iris knocks some of her papers off the desk and onto the floor. They scatter across the pelt rug, and Iris bends to collect them, feeling inexplicably nervous. She doesn’t notice her mother has walked closer until her hand emerges in Iris’s downturned vision to hand her a stray piece of parchment.

“You’re looking at bandit incidents?” Francine asks.

Iris swallows. “You know,” she says lightly. “Just checking up on the kingdom. I was interested.”

“Is your interest anything to do with the fact that I’m travelling through the mountains on my way to my sister’s?” Francine asks knowingly.

Iris averts her gaze, and admits, finally, in a small voice, “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I’ll be back,” her mother soothes. “You’ll barely notice I’ve gone.”

Iris shakes her head to disagree with that, and keeps her eyes on the floor as she feels her mother put a hand on her shoulder.

“Iris,” she says, and her fingers move to nudge gently under her daughter’s chin, forcing her to make eye contact. “You’ll be fine, I promise.”

“What if I need you?” Iris persists.

Francine takes a deep breath, as if choosing her words carefully, “Then, my love, you need to turn to your husband.”

Iris recoils. “He’s not my-”

“He  _is_ ,” Francine insists. “And even if the two of you aren’t in love, you still need to work together. I know you’ve been avoiding him, even waking up later to not see him at breakfast.”

Iris averts her eyes guiltily, which is affirmation enough.

“You need to be a team, Iris, and that means you need to trust him, with your problems and your reality.”

Iris wants to argue some more, but she can’t deny the truth of her mother’s words. She’d been trying so hard to keep this like a game, but knowing that the love they’re presenting is fake doesn’t mean the marriage itself is.

She groans. “Alright, that’s enough good advice, you can go now.”

Francine laughs, and pulls her daughter into another tight hug.

-

The next few days pass slowly, and Iris concentrates most of her efforts on avoiding her husband - a term she’s still getting used to. She’s learned to not spend too much time in the library, since she’s most likely to bump into Barry there, so she’s been spending a lot of time in the drawing room, reading the occasional book or writing in her own notebook. She’s debating whether to venture into town or not when Wally walks into the room, looking cross.

“What is it?” Iris asks, putting down her quill immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong with  _you_?” He snaps, shutting the door behind him.

Iris stands, and her hackles rise as she replies, “What are you talking about?” He knows how stressed she’s been recently, and she honestly can’t think of what she’s done to offend him. Force of habit of having a little brother means she’s hardly going to take this lying down.

“You told Sir Thawne!” He gestures angrily. “I don’t understand why you’d put yourself through all this, only to spoil it all by confessing it all.”

He’s talking about her letter to Eddie. Her stomach twists - since sending it, she’d been see-sawing between regret and determination, and Wally’s condemnation makes her worry come back in full force. But she snaps regardless, “How do you know about that?”

“Linda-”

Iris growls. “I’m going to kill her.”

“Linda made a small comment, barely a hint, and I figured out the rest.” Wally defends, obviously not letting anyone disparage Linda. “I should’ve guessed you would tell your precious  _Eddie_.”

“She shouldn’t have told you!” Iris exclaims, rather than respond to that mean latter comment.

“You shouldn’t have done it in the first place! You think it’s a good idea telling your former suitor that you don’t love your actual husband?”

“It’s not so simple,” she snaps, hands on her hips.

“You’ve barely been married a week,” Wally says firmly, like she isn’t aware of that fact. “It will be a massive scandal if this is found out.”

“Sorry for caring about things other than rumour!” Iris exclaims, quickly irritated by his superior attitude, like some people in their social circles wouldn’t be mortally offended if they knew about his crush on Linda, a servant.

“It will undo all the peace you did all this for if it gets out.”

“It won’t get out! He won’t tell anyone.”

He fires back, “Have even you heard back from him yet?”

Iris is forced to admit, quietly, “No.” But she quickly adds, “He’s not going to tell anyone!”

“He’s going to tell  _someone_!” He throws up his arms in frustration. “Come on, Iris. He’s going to be angry, and he’ll want to get back at you.”

“He won’t!”

“And you’re being cruel by telling him,” Wally says, and that hits Iris like a knife, something Iris hadn’t considered. “You don’t know for sure how long you’re going to be married to Barry, Iris.”

“That’s- I was just trying to prevent him from being hurt,” Iris says, wringing her fingers.

Wally takes a step forward, his anger deflating. “I don’t know Sir Thawne like you do, and I guess that’s your decision to make. Just because I don’t trust him doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. But,” he pauses for the right phrasing. “You’ve done a noble thing by marrying Barry, and for that to be in vain by other people finding out seems such a waste.”

“I-” Iris takes a deep breath, and Wally steps closer, their anger fizzling out as quickly as it had flared. “Wally, I didn’t want him to think I was fickle. Or that I never cared for him. Maybe that was selfish, I don’t know.”

Her brother reaches for her, and she goes to his embrace quickly. One day, she’ll get over the fact her little brother is so much taller than her. “I know. I’m only worried that you’ll have gone through all this for nothing.”

But she hasn’t – even in the few days since the marriage has been announced, reports of unrest have decreased. It isn’t a perfect nor immediate solution, but it has surely helped.

She lets out a small, humourless laugh against his shoulder. “Since when did you give good advice?”

“I’m a knight-in-training now,” he replies in mock-bravado. “I’m wise.”

That, she can’t help but snort at.

Wally’s worry seems to have been in vain anyway – the next day, Eddie’s reply arrives.

_Princess West,_

_It was just a few hours after I sent the original letter that I received the news from my uncle of your wedding. He tells me it was a lovely ceremony._

_I suppose I can’t deny that this does come as a blow to my heart. But no more can I claim that I blame you. If anything, it only raises my esteem of you, that you would give so much to your kingdom and duty._

_I asked for you to wait for me, Princess, and it would make me a damned hypocrite if I was not willing to do the same for you, if you’ll still have me. I don’t know what the future holds, but I at least hope you’ll be free of such a loveless marriage soon._

_Yours, still and irrevocably,_

_Edward Thawne_

She re-reads the letter over and again, hardly daring to believe it. It’s the best she could have hoped for, and she doesn’t hesitate to write back.

But her first draft is another mess of emotion and poor phrasing, so she crumples it up and throws it in the bin just before one of the maids takes the woven basket away for disposal.

She’s walking past the drawing room to deliver the fourth draft (ink now is splattered and stained across her fingers in a most undignified manner) to the pigeon carriers, when she hears two maids whisper between them, “Poor Cisco, having to go there - I don’t think he’ll come back, you know.”

She stops, because her brother had been looking for Cisco, one of his favourite and closest stable boys, all evening. “Are you talking about Cisco Ramon? Where did you say he’s gone?”

They startle at being overhead, and the blond tries to shake her head, saying quickly, “Oh, no, we weren’t-”

“You’re not in trouble,” Iris replies, making her smile kind. They still don’t answer, averting their gaze guiltily, so she adds, “Neither will Cisco. It’s just that Wally has been looking for him - is he at the pub?”

It wouldn’t be the first time servants have lost track of time down at The Verdant Inn, but their expressions suggest it’s something much worse.

She manages to pull enough information from them to find out he’s been dragged away from his post by a nobleman visiting the castle who liked the look of him. That’s enough to make Iris feel cold with worry, but then she finds out where he’s been taken, and her blood boils. And when Iris West is angry, there’s not much she won’t do.

Which is why she stalks to her room, telling the maids to only tell Linda where she’s gone and that she should be back by midnight. (If she isn’t - well, she’ll cross that bridge when she gets to it.)

Apparently, the noble has taken Cisco to the STAR Rooms, a place only a privileged few could get into. She’d heard rumours about it for a while, muttered mentions and conversations cut off, but it was never a place she’d been much inclined to visit. Gossip was clear that it was everything from a bar to a brothel to a gambling house, the latter being especially illegal in the West kingdom.

She goes to her closet and pulls on one of her evening gowns, a simple but expensive piece that shows a bit more cleavage than she’s usually comfortable with. She has a feeling she’ll need all the tricks she can gather. She grabs her purse, throwing in some coins and a parchment and pencil set, her usual necessities, and a plain shawl to cover herself, and she steals down one of the lesser known passageways. No-one ever goes this way down to the kitchen, which will be near empty by this hour, so she won’t see anyone who’ll question her destination or dress.

Or, at least, so she presumed.

As she’s rounding one of the corners, holding a small lantern and holding her dress up at the front so she doesn’t trip over the fabric, she smacks bodily into someone coming the other way. The lantern goes flying, and extinguishes as it breaks.

“Oh,  _shit_ ,” she curses, forgetting herself.

“ _Iris_?” It’s Barry - because of course it is. “What are you doing?”

“I’m-” she stutters, not prepared with a lie. “I’m going to the library.”

“This isn’t the way to the library,” he replies, still sounding confused.

She doesn’t have time for this, so she just skips quickly around him, saying lightly. “Oh? It’s not? My mistake, I meant the falconry.”

She darts off, the faint echoes of his reply, “That’s not that way either…” following her as she finds her way by the faint moonlight through the windows and her muscle memory. Eventually she comes out of the winding corridor and into the kitchen. Some of the younger servants are chopping up pieces of meat, ready to cook overnight, but they bear her little mind as she rushes through.

She’s been feeling antsy for days, stifled by Barry’s very presence and the newfound responsibilities her father has been entrusting her with. She’s glad for both, and she stands by the decisions she’s made to get here, but she can’t help the curious side of her that’s been clamouring for an adventure, for an excuse to get out of the castle.

As she leaves the castle and starts making her way down the steep road to town, she realises she should have brought Wally with her.  Cisco is his friend after all, the two of them having bonded over similar fascinations with mechanics and new inventions. Wally receives a pamphlet every month with the latest mad ideas and schematics - they all look like witchcraft to Iris, but the two men enjoy perusing them and discussing the possibilities. She knows Wally’s been considering asking Cisco to become his squire once he achieves his knighthood.

But no, she decides. It’s too late to go back now - and maybe it would be best if Wally doesn’t know at all. They’re a good team, brother and sister duo, when the time calls for it. But while her speciality is investigating and subtlety, Wally tends to be a little more…rash. He’d want to go in and just starting roughing up anyone who had looked at Cisco funny - and that’s not even considering the protective streak he has.

She makes her way through the cobbled streets quickly, avoiding eye contact as she passes some of the shadier shops and streets. She’s very rarely felt unsafe in her own city, and it must only be her imagination that’s setting off the unease in her gut. She’s still in public, still recognisable – no one would dare hurt her.

She finds the street the maids had told her about easily enough, and it’s not hard to guess the specific house. There’s a few people already too drunk and staggering outside, vomiting into the street with blotchy cheeks. She walks closer and hears the cheery music playing, quietening and rising with every easy swing of the main doors. She dodges out of the way of a man exiting and walks inside, letting her shawl fall to the crooks of her elbows and baring more of her neckline.

It’s not her first time in a bar, but it’s certainly the first time she’s been in one like this. It’s all dim light, and coloured glass on the lanterns to create odd colours that make it difficult to recognise people. Servants are dressed with plenty of skin on show, carrying around tall glasses with ale and wine filled to the brim.

She takes a step further into the loud raucous, but a forearm bars across her collarbones, halting her in her tracks. “Name?” A bored, deep voice asks.

She’s tempted to use a fake name, but she doesn’t know whether she would need to be on some kind of pre-approved list. The option is taken away as soon as the guard takes a good look at her, and his eyes widen in recognition. “Princess?” He says, incredulously. “We don’t- your family never comes here.”

Well, that’s a relief, at least. But she’s playing a character here, and she needs entry. She lifts her chin, tries to adopt that haughty glare she’s seen so many other royals use in other kingdoms and territories. She tries to channel the grace of Nyssa al-Ghul and the poise of Kara Zor-El, two princesses she’d always admired and revered, as she says, “Perhaps they are not as adventurous as I am.”

He nods, and even bows a little as he gestures for her to pass through. She hands off her shawl to the door-servant that holds out his hands, and she moves into what she thinks is the main dance area.

Various lounge seats are scattered around, with two or three or even six people sprawled across them, chatting and drinking. For the most part, it’s not the debauchery she had been expecting - no-one swings from the rafters, and no-one is having an orgy.

She’s not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

What does alarm her is how many of the faces she recognises. She’s familiar with many of the kingdom’s nobility, certainly, but she’s definitely seen a Lady whom she knows has been married for forty years sticking her tongue down an unknown woman’s mouth, and she can see her Chief Admiral throwing dice on a velvet table.

The clear show of illegal gambling makes her itch to get her parchment out and start taking names, start getting some eyewitness accounts so they can build a case against the obvious criminal activity. But that will have to wait for another time. She’s on a mission, tonight. She walks further into the venue, smiling the occasional greeting at nobles who recognise her as well. Most are too drunk to really notice the peculiarity in her appearance, but the occasional one will clearly startle. She holds back the wince - she’ll have to warn her father before the rumours circulate.

She walks around the club, trying to look for Cisco. It’s a face she knows well, so when she makes the first round and she doesn’t see him, worry and doubt begins to creep in. Best case scenario is that the maids were confused, and Cisco is just back at the castle, grooming the horses or something.

Someone grabs at her wrist, making her jump. It’s Sara, who’s definitely out of place here in the West Kingdom. “Iris?” She asks, surprisingly alert considering the glass in her hand. She follows Iris’s gaze and then quickly explains, “It’s non-alcoholic.”

“Oh, I didn’t-” Iris stops herself - it doesn’t matter. “Have you seen a servant? Dark long hair, big mouth? He probably looked like he didn’t want to be here.”

Thea twists her lips. “A noble brought him here, I’m guessing?” At Iris’ nod, she looks visibly discomforted. “He might have taken him to one of the back rooms.”

“What are- oh.  _Oh_ , fuck.” Iris looks around again, and her gaze falls on a small archway in the far corner of the room, hidden by a thin, shimmery veil.

Thea nods in confirmation. “Yeah. Don’t get me wrong, this place isn’t shady enough that they don’t stop it when they can, but if your missing person is a servant…”

“Yeah,” Iris says, understanding the implications completely. Cisco would undoubtedly be pressured, and hardly able to say anything. She feels her stomach tighten as the mental pictures provide themselves. “Thanks for your help.”

“No worries,” Sara replies easily. “You should come here more often, you know - it’s a good way to let loose.”

Iris has never spoken to Sara much, too busy trying not to stare at the picture she and her sister make with their beauty and their cool gazes. But she sees the sincerity, and thinks about how lonely it can be as an older sister of royalty, and whether it might be the same to be a younger sister. She nods, hoping Sara can see the truth as she says, “Yeah, I think I will.”

She pushes away the veil of the archway, having swerved around various people and sofas to reach it. The dim light isn’t easy to see in, but her eyes adjust enough to see more sofas, and a bad in the very far corner. She recoils when she sees two people writhing together on the bed - but one’s a woman, and it seems to be  _very_ consensual judging from their moans and exuberance.

She spots him on one of the far sofas, looking uncomfortable as a man in expensive clothes trails a hand up his thigh. Cisco is curved away from the man, and his eyes catch Iris’s in panic as the man leans his face closer.

Her fists curl of their own volition. What was that she had thought earlier, about her brother being the rash West?

She stalks up to them and taps the man on the shoulder, her smile sweet though her eyes can’t mask her anger. “Excuse me,” she says.

“Yes?” The man drawls, straightening to look at her. Iris flinches in recognition: Duke Malcolm Merlyn. He’d always given her the creeps, but his high position in Starling Kingdom had forced her to be polite. She watches as his own face clears as he really examines her. “Princess West?”

“Yes,” she acknowledges. “I was hoping I could take Mr Ramon back to the castle. We don’t like our servants being coerced out of their posts and their home.”

She expects him to be apologetic, or at least embarrassed. But he only reclines into the sofa, spreading his arms in both directions along its back and his legs apart in a vulgar pose, as he says, with a cocked eyebrow, “You’re sure you don’t want to stay?

Her face screws up in disgust. “You must be kidding.” She looks away from him and says, “Come on, Cisco, we’re leaving.”

Cisco doesn’t waste any time in standing - at least Merlyn has enough dignity to not grab onto him, recognising that particular battle is lost. Iris resists the urge to hold onto Cisco, to calm her own discomfort and reassure herself of his presence, but he’s been used enough tonight. She doesn’t want to think about what might have happened if she was any later.

Merlyn smirks, and just that twitch of his lips is enough to make her stomach twist. Then he says, “Ah, yes, of course. I forgot. You’re married now, aren’t you?”

“Even if I wasn’t,” she assures him coldly. “I’m sure I’d manage to resist your charms, if you can call them that.” She remembers Malcolm’s wife, remembers the horror that have reverberated around the continent when she had been killed by a random bandit. It’s with that memory she adds, spitting the words, “I’m sure Rebecca would be so proud to see how her husband succeeds her, stealing away servants and lounging in places like this.”

He stands abruptly, a nasty curl to his lips like a rabid wolf. Without the callous humour to shield him, his rage is frightening to witness. “Those are mighty big words,” he sneers. “For Central City’s newest  _whore_.”

He makes a pointed glance to her more revealing bodice to hammer his words home, and she feels a rush of sickness.

“Apologise to her.”

She spins in surprise, sure that she can’t be right in recognising that voice. But there Barry is, always managing to appear right when she least expects him. He’s by himself, looking out of place like this. Her cheeks tinge with embarrassment at him finding her here, apparently just in time to hear that, but he’s too busy fixing Merlyn with a glare hat could melt stone.

“Barry, it’s fine,” she says. She brushes her hand against Cisco’s arm for him to follow her as the turns away. “Come on, let’s leave.”

“You don’t deserve him saying that,” Barry replies, his tone stony.

“It’s what everyone else is saying,” Merlyn pipes up, showing a distinct lack of knowing when to quit. “She has ears, so I suppose she would have heard it sooner or later.”

His deliberately casual tone makes his statement all the harder to hear. Iris feels something unpleasant coil in her belly – she’d thought people were staring at her here because she was out of place. But what if she was the scandal, rather than the scandalised?

Iris swallows back the bile-like humiliation. “Barry, let’s just take Cisco home.”

Barry looks like he wants to do something else, and something violent judging by the look he shoots Malcolm, but he obligingly turns away from the Duke. She doesn’t know why he’s here, but she’s oddly, and fiercely, glad that he is.

“Is that home in the West kingdom or Central City?” Merlyn continues, clearly stung by having Cisco taken away from him, and he can’t resist one last jibe. “You know, Princess, there’s a wager going around on how long you’ll last. After all, like father like son-”

He’s cut off by the impact of Barry’s fist to his jaw.

“Barry!” Iris exclaims.

Merlyn falls sideways on the sofa, groaning, a spatter of blood from his lips.

A few people have looked over, but most are too absorbed in their own fun to care, and they’re hidden away in the back rooms anyway.

Barry shakes out his head, his knuckles already going red. She’s had enough injuries from sparring with Wally to know his hand will be swollen within the hour, and she tugs at him, grabbing at his arm.

He lets himself be towed away, and they hurry through the bar before Merlyn can say anything else.

They make it out into the cool air. Cisco finally speaks, “Oh my  _god_ , that guy had bad breath,” he exclaims into the night, scrubbing a hand through his dark hair.

Iris can’t help but grin at that, glad of his humour even in times like this. But she has to check, “Are you okay? Did he- we’ll take him to court if he hurt you-”

“It’s fine, it’s cool, Princess Badass,” he smiles back at her. “Wait ‘til I tell Wally how you stalked up to Merlyn like that. And  _Prince_  Badass!” Now he turns to Barry, with wide, welcoming arms. “My man, our hero.”

Barry’s eyes still look troubled, but Cisco’s antics force a weak twitch of a smile from him as well.  “It was mostly Iris.”

“You punched him.” Iris points out. Then she replays that sentence in her head, and says in horror, “Oh gods, Barry, you  _punched him_. You punched Duke Merlyn.”

“He deserved it,” Cisco interjects, sounding viciously happy with the fact.

“That’s not the point!” Iris exclaims, starting to pace. “Okay, I’ll send a letter tomorrow to the Queens – maybe if we explain it all, and collect some testimonies from witnesses, and-”

“Iris.” Barry cuts across her. “It’s fine. I’ll send a letter to Oliver tomorrow, he doesn’t trust Malcolm anyway.”

She abruptly remembers how Barry got on well with Oliver at their wedding, and stops pacing. “You’re sure?”

“Merlyn was out of line,” Barry says firmly, and Cisco fervently nods his head in agreement. “I doubt he’ll be the one to tell Oliver.”

Iris takes a deep breath as she lets the worry ease away. The cold makes itself known, and she rubs her shoulders, feeling exposed as she remembers she left her shawl in there.

Barry notices, and shrugs off his jacket before she can protest. “Here,” he says, draping it over her. “We should probably be on our way back, unless you want to stay?”

At first she thinks he’s being sly, a mean allusion to her decision to come here in the first place, but when she looks at his expression, there’s no hint of anything other than sincerity. “I only came to get Cisco,” she says, tugging the jacket closer over her bodice.

“Okay,” he accepts easily and seemingly without judgement. She’s prepared for some kind of scolding, but it doesn’t come.

They start walking, and then Iris has time to process more of her questions. “How did you find me?” she asks Barry as they turn onto the main street. Then she has another thought, that maybe he wasn’t there for her at all. “Did  _you_ want to stay?”

“Oh, no, definitely not,” he shakes his head, avoiding her gaze as he explains, “I-well, I saw Linda, and mentioned that you’d left in a hurry, and then she spoke to some of the maids. When they said where they suspected you’d gone, Linda seemed pretty concerned.”

Her first thought is to be irritated that Linda thought she needed saving, but she pushes it away. Linda would obviously be concerned, and Iris can’t say she isn’t thankful Barry did show up when he did.

"I’m sorry Merlyn said… what he said,” she says, unsure about how to express her thanks.

“It’s fine,” he says, but he looks away as he says it, sticking his hands in the pockets of his breeches.

“It’s not,” she disagrees.

He twists his lips. “I’m used to it, Iris.”

And, well, she’s not sure what to say to that, the idea that people have the nerve to say to his face their own awful suspicions about his mother’s death.

They make the rest of the journey in silence. When they get back to the castle, Cisco thanks them again before darting away to the servants’ quarters. Iris and Barry make their way up the corridors to their bedchambers.

“Fair warning,” Barry says, as they reach Iris’ bedchambers. “I imagine Linda is waiting for you. She seemed pretty mad.”

Iris pulls a face. “Wonderful. I suppose I deserve it.”

“You went to look after one of your friends,” Barry says, shaking his head. “That’s commendable.”

She’s surprised at that. “But you came after me.”

“Not to prevent you from doing anything.” He smiles wryly. “I’m your husband, aren’t I? Am I not supposed to support you?”

She can’t help but regard him, thinking that everyone else in her life would have told her off, would have tried to scold her for being reckless or stupid.

“Thanks,” she says, softly, before she pushes open the door. It’s only when she’s closed it behind her that she remembers she’s still wearing his jacket.

True to Barry’s prediction, Linda is waiting with a cross expression and folded arms. “You couldn’t have told someone?” She exclaims hotly. “Iris, you can’t go off to strange inns on heroic missions at night! You’re going to be a queen soon, you can’t- and you’re not even listening to me.”

Iris looks back up guiltily, from where she’d been examining the sleeve of the jacket in thought. “Sorry,” she says, though even she must admit she doesn’t particularly sound it.

“Is that Barry’s jacket?” Linda asks.

“Yeah,” Iris admits, and she shrugs it off. “Thanks for sending him for me, Linda. I am sorry for worrying you.”

An idea suddenly occurs to her, as she looks down at the fabric. Before Linda can continue, and before Iris can chicken out, she darts over to the bookcase and pulls out one of her favourite books. She strides quickly out of her bedchambers and down to the right, knocking on the next door she comes across.

After a moment, in which she considers turning back, the door opens, and Barry pokes his head around. “Iris?”

“Here,” she says, thrusting the book and the jacket at him rather ungracefully. “I- thank you.”

“For the jacket?” He asks, taking the objects from her with a small mix of confusion and suspicion.

“And for coming after me,” she says. “And for understanding why I went.”

He turns over the book and finally sees the title. “ _Studies and Accounts of Meta-Humans_ ,” he reads aloud.

“I thought you might enjoy it,” she says, trying to subdue the immediate instinct to snatch the book back and run away in embarrassment. She starts tapping her fingers against her hip nervously. “It’s a collection of people and incidents beyond what our current science can explain.”

Barry’s already flicking through the pages, and she recognises the interest on his face, having felt it so many times with a new book. “Just in the West kingdom?” He asks.

“All over the continent,” she replies, her own enthusiasm leaking into her words. “There’s even one witness who was on a fishing boat in the middle of the sea, and he saw a tsunami just appear and disappear as if controlled by someone.”

He looks back up, and she can easily read the sincerity in his eyes as he says, "Thank you, Iris.”

-

The next day, Iris deliberately goes to breakfast the same time she knows Barry always goes, and is glad of her choice when she sees the pleased look that flitters across his face. The maids put in an equal attempt at hiding their surprise as they serve her food and coffee.

Wally, as always, however, is not so subtle. “Iris, did Linda set forward the time on your clock?” he asks, and Iris resists the urge to throw her croissant at him.

“I just woke a little earlier,” she says, only an undercurrent of warning to her words. “Is that such a crime now?”

“Did you sleep well, Barry?” Her father asks, ignoring his children’s antics.

“Oh, actually, I was up most of the night reading,” Barry says, and Iris snaps away from trying to communicate with her brother via eyebrow wiggling to stare at him. Only the tips of his ears reddening slightly betray his awareness of her view.

“Really?” Iris asks, choosing her words slowly. “Did you, uh, enjoy your book then?”

Barry’s hesitant smile makes gentle warmth spread across her chest. “Yeah, it was a great choice.”

And so starts the unofficial West-Allen book club, party of two.

Over the next week, it becomes almost a race, to receive a book from the other and then read it as quickly as possible to give one’s opinion and then give a book in return, starting the cycle again.

Iris finds herself being able to talk about new theories and unexplained mysteries in a way she’s never been able to before. Wally and her parents were never that interested, and Linda always believed in practical investigating rather than the theoretical side of things. Other nobles would always look perplexed at her very interest, and the servants were too busy to read the same things she was reading. But Barry meets her idea to idea, challenges and disagrees with her, and she can see the same light in his eyes come to life she recognises well.

She thinks that maybe, if there’s enough books in the library, they might be able to make this work.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Dear Princess West,_

_Thank you for asking - yes, I have been able to make my way into the local town. I went just this morning to pick up some fresh fruit vegetables from the market. I find the local strawberries particularly lovely. (They remind me of your perfume.) My friend seems to be doing well, for now. Or at least, his health does not seem to be declining so dramatically. His wife has been very kind to me, and his children seem to have finally learned to trust me. They even invited me to play ball with them in the gardens a few mornings ago!_

_I must ask you a favour, Princess, though of course I respect your right to refuse. I was wondering if you might visit Thawne Manor. You know my uncle, Lord Eobard Thawne, of course, but he hasn’t been replying to any of my letters. I only ask you because he has a history of… getting absorbed in his projects, to the point of self-destruction, and I worry that without me there, it will be all too easy for him to become obsessive. I don’t want to ask anyone else because I cannot trust that my uncle’s condition won’t immediately become the court’s new gossip._

_Yours,_

_Edward Thawne_

The morning after she receives another one of Eddie’s letters, she decides to go to Thawne Manor, having no other duties for the day. She’s just about to leave her bedchambers, her bag prepared and her boots laced, when there comes a knock from the door. When she opens it, it’s Barry on the other side, holding a book for her.

“Oh,” he says, taking in her attire. “You’re going into town?”

“Thawne Manor,” she corrects, already turning her attention to the book in his hands. “Is that for me?”

“You’re going to Thawne Manor?” He echoes, ignoring her own question as he frowns. “Not by yourself?”

At that, she bristles. “I don’t need a chaperone.”

He reaches past her to place the book down on the small table next to her door, not even needing to look. Something in her jolts as he brushes so close to her, and she catches the scent of his deep cologne. “I’m coming with you,” he says, firmly and not allowing any disagreement.

Iris raises her eyebrows dangerously. “Excuse me?”

“You’re visiting Eobard, I presume,” he says, and something about the way he pronounces the name (and using Lord Thawne’s first name in the first place) makes Iris tilt her head questioningly.

“Yes?” she says. “Why are you acting like that’s an issue?”

“I know him, he visits Central City quite a lot.” He twists his lips. “He was one of the loudest voices accusing my dad.”

“Oh,” Iris says, quietly. Barry doesn’t often mention the scandal his family are known for, or anything, really, to do with his mother’s death.

“It’s more than that,” he says, and he looks straight at her now, as if using his eyes to try and convince her. “I don’t trust him, Iris. Just- let me come with you. I have the morning free anyway. And it will make me worry less.”

She’s a little thrown by the idea of him worrying about her that she says without thinking, “Okay.”

He looks a little surprised, obviously expecting to have to argue with her more, but quickly steels his expression. “Okay then,” he echoes. “Let’s go.”

Thawne Manor is about a half hour walk from the castle, and Iris takes them the more scenic route, through the forest areas. She realises Barry barely knows the area when he looks at the trees with mild wonder, admiring their beauty even now, at the close of fall. That thought is followed by a splash of guilt that she hasn’t showed him around – she knows he’s been exploring the town himself, but he’s a guest here, and she’d only been thinking of herself, of the restrictions the marriage had replaced on her.

“Do you miss Central City?” she asks, obvious apropos of nothing judging by the way Barry startles at the question.

“Oh, well,” he shrugs. “Sometimes. I miss my dad.”

“And your friends?” she asks. Another thought occurs to her before she can activate any kind of mental filter. “Do you have a lover? We could arrange a discreet visit-“

“No!” Barry says quickly, going red. “No, there’s no lover. And, I didn’t… I didn’t leave the castle, apart from going to the university. And, well, a lot of people who I thought were my friends turned out to, uh, not be.”

Her lips twist in sympathy, and she says determinedly, “Well, they’re the ones missing out.”

He smiles, and then his eyes dart to look at her, as he says, carefully, “And you?”

She feels uncomfortable with the question, which is both awfully hypocritical and stupid. She admits, “I’m still writing to Eddie.”

“Sir Thawne,” he says. Then his expression clears. “That’s why you’re visiting Thawne Manor?”

“He asked me to,” she defends. “He’s worried about his uncle.”

“Eobard?” Barry’s face screws up a little as if having smelt something bad. “We’re going to check up on him?”

“It’ll be a quick visit,” she assures. “No more than five, ten minutes, just to check he’s not damaging his own health.”

Barry looks away, still looking disgruntled. She’s beginning to suspect there’s something more in his distrust of Eobard than he admitted, but she doesn’t want to push the subject when he’s already uncomfortable with even visiting.

They make the rest of the trip in silence, until Thawne Manor comes into view. Iris has to admit, even taking into account her bias, it’s an impressive building, obviously built on new money considering its white stone, only recently fashionable. The path up to the front door is gravelled, and they have to step to the side as a servant and his horse trot by. The gardens are lush and colourful, and she can see at least three gardeners working away in the mid-morning sun.

It’s a huge building, considering how little people actually live there. She doesn’t know the whole story, but both of Eddie’s parents died when he was young, and despite the occasional mention of a previous wife, Eobard doesn’t have any other family members living there. As they walk closer, and the building looms above them, Iris can kind of see why a person would go slightly mad all by themselves.

The servants must have seen them coming, because the door opens before Iris has to even knock. A butler bows as they enter, an older man with a thin grey moustache and a well-fitting uniform. “We’re here to visit Lord Thawne,” Iris says. “Is he available for visitors?”

The man doesn’t reply, only holding his arm wide to gesture them towards another room. Iris and Barry share a look but obey the directions, stepping into a large greeting room. It’s quite unlike the reception room at the West castle, which is covered with paintings and throws and comfortable chairs, with its window large and positioned so the afternoon sun warms the room. The Thawne room is cold, however, and the stone floor makes Iris’s boot heels clack loudly. The chairs are rigid, and there are only a few tapestries on the wall, all in the Thawne blue and mostly without any pictures of people.

The butler bows again and leaves them in there, and Iris feels her stomach twist a little in discomfort. She’s never been here without Eddie, never noticed the furnishings because she’s been too focused on him.

Barry remains standing as she sits, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard chair and failing. “How long do you think we’ll be waiting?” Barry asks, folding his arms. He’s obviously trying to hide it, but the tension radiates off him like smoke. She realises how little he must have actually wanted to come with her, and she’s inexplicably warmed by the gesture.

Before she can reply, the door opens, and Eobard himself walks in. His smile is wide as he takes in Iris, and he’s already reaching for her hands when he spots Barry. His expression falters, obviously surprised by Barry’s appearance, and his smile takes a sharp edge. “Prince Allen,” he greets, formally. Then his smile curls, and he corrects. “Sorry, Prince West-Allen. Aren’t I honoured to have the famous couple visiting?”

“It’s good to see you, Lord Thawne,” Iris says politely, deciding to ignore the weird tension altogether as Barry visibly bristles. “We were walking around the forests and we thought we’d drop in. I hope we’re not disturbing you.”

“Not at all!” His blonde hair and blue eyes are exactly matches to Eddie, but while Eddie’s brow and expressions soften his strong jawline, Eobard seems to be all hard edges, a strong nose and cheekbones that accentuate the dancing meanness in his gaze. He sits in the chair opposite her, a low wooden table marking the distance between them. “I haven’t been up to much since Edward left.”

Iris keeps her expression neutral, though the way Eobard looks at her with a knowing look tells her the mention was deliberate and calculated. She wonders whether it was a mistake to come here – she’d always known Eobard had a sharp tongue, but she’s starting to realise how much it was softened in public with the shield of other people’s presence.

“Yes, I heard he’d left for a while,” she says delicately, and the way he raises his brow makes her nervous about what exactly he does know. A sharp jolt goes through her at the idea that Eddie told Eobard the truth, and she says, trying to move the conversation on, “Your house is looking lovely.”

He waves a hand in dismissal. “Yes, well, that’s why we pay so many servants, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” she acquiesces. “But doesn’t it show good taste that you order them?”

“Perhaps,” he shrugs one shoulder, but he’s already moving on. “Won’t you sit, Prince?”

Barry’s jaw tightens, and he looks to Iris. She tries to plead with her eyes, tries to express that she wants this over and done with as quickly as he does. Silently, he moves, and sits on the chair next to Iris. He’s closer than he usually is, but she’s certainly thankful for it. “Your gardens are lovely,” he says, stilted.

“Thank you,” Eobard replies, and he tilts his head, a faux casual movement. Iris doesn’t know how or why but this entire interaction is a battlefield she wasn’t prepared for. “I seem to remember the gardens at Central Manor being just as beautiful, if not more so. Does your father still employ the same gardener?”

“I think so,” Barry replies, the words almost forced through his teeth.

“You know, I heard a story about a fake marriage actually being found out by a gardener,” Eobard comments, as if his phrasing doesn’t make Iris’s blood freeze.

“A fake marriage?” She asks, treading carefully on this minefield Eobard is setting up for them.

“Oh yes,” Eobard says, and to an outside observer, the faint mockery to his words might not even be noticeable. “I mean, we all know some marriages are for politics rather than love, but it’s still embarrassing for all parties involved when the truth eventually comes out, especially when they try to sell it as genuine.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t even bother ourselves with someone else’s marriage,” Iris replies lightly. “Especially not to listen to gossip.”

“Perhaps,” Eobard echoes, leaning back in his chair and regarding her with an eye she doesn’t like. He doesn’t seem haggard or obsessed with a project – his hair is well styled and he’s clean-shaven – so she’s achieved what she came for, and she can report back to Eddie with a clean conscience. With that, she makes her decision.

“We were actually on our way to town,” Iris says, quickly, before Eobard can say anything else to try and unsettle Barry. She was right, there is definitely something else in their history that Barry didn’t mention. “We won’t intrude on you longer, Lord Thawne.”

“You’re always welcome, Princess,” Eobard replies, and it doesn’t go unnoticed that he doesn’t add any acknowledgement of Barry. “I imagine you’ll be round even more when Eddie returns.”

She should’ve known he wouldn’t let them go without another mention of Eddie, and she wills away the red that threatens to creep across her cheeks. She reaches for Barry and links her fingers through his, pulling his hand onto her thigh. Eobard’s gaze watches the movement, and his lips lose their mean curl.

“Perhaps,” she replies simply. She doesn’t know how she’s going to be able to report back to Eddie on the whole encounter, though she knows she must before Eobard writes and presumably distorts the scene. She stands, tugging Barry up with her. “It’s been so nice to catch up with you, Lord Thawne. You must come to the castle soon.”

“I’m sure I will,” he says, standing as well. He doesn’t make any motion to reach for her hand to kiss it this time, and only watches them leave.

They don’t speak until they leave the Thawne land, as if they share the same, unspoken paranoia that Eobard or his servants might hear them. As soon as they reach the cover of the forest, Iris feels Barry deflate. He lets out a whoosh of an exhale, and lets his hand fall from her grasp. She tells herself she doesn’t miss the contact.

“Okay,” Iris says. “I guess I can see why you don’t like the guy.”

She’s surprised by the laugh that erupts from him, as if all the relief from leaving Thawne Manor rushes out of him all at once. “Yeah,” Barry says. “Yeah, that wasn’t exactly a comfortable visit, was it?”

“I’m sorry that you had to be there for that,” she says. “Though, I’m also glad that you were. Is that awful? I’ve never been alone with him before, I didn’t realise he would be so….”

“He suspects us, doesn’t he?” Barry says, thoughtfully. He looks at her from the corner of his eye as they pass over a small brook. “And he knows you still like Sir Thawne.”

She twists her lips, not quite wanting to admit to that latter part out loud, though she can’t reasonably deny it.

But he doesn’t seem to mind that she doesn’t reply, as he thinks out loud, “Did he ever make any mention of wanting you to marry Sir Thawne?”

She frowns. “No, I don’t think so.”

“No lord would pass up the opportunity for their kin to marry into royalty. And Lord Thawne is certainly more ambitious than most.”

“Well,” she says. “It doesn’t matter if he did.”

“It will in a few years,” he reminds her, after a beat, and she pauses.

“Oh. You think that’s why he cares so much about whether our marriage is real?”

“If I had to guess,” he says, and she can see his jaw visibly tighten. “We’ll just have to make sure not to give him any further ammunition.”

Iris nods her head determinedly. “He’s only got suspicion and clever words. That’s not enough to break us.”

“Exactly,” he says. “We’re strong together, and he’s just a bitter, lonely man.”

She shouldn’t feel a rush of pride at him calling them strong, but she can’t deny the glow that seems to spread through her, lighting her up from the inside out.

-

Almost without her noticing, Barry seems to carve out a little room for himself in her life. There’s not a day that goes by where she doesn’t bump into him, or give him a book, or just seek him out to talk to. She learns his sense of humour, knows how to make him laugh. She has a private game with herself to make him laugh so he’ll tip his whole chin back, throat exposed and loud delight. She knows his opinions on politics, and they’ve spent whole hours discussing and arguing until Iris wants to hit him a little bit, an intensity to their discussion she’s never been allowed to even think with other noblemen.

But perhaps she hadn’t quite noticed how he’d become close with the other people in her life.

She’s walking across to the gardens with Linda, having just had an argument with her tutor over the treatment of playwrights and the use of censorship in the East continent, when she sees Wally and Cisco. The two of them are by the lake, jumping about and laughing, visible in the excitable fluidity in their movements. She changes her mind about going to sit and read by the flower patches in the midday sun, and changes her path to go to them, gesturing for Linda to follow her direction. She assumes Linda will be only too happy to spend time with Wally.

As they draw closer, she can actually hear their laughter and Cisco’s claim that, “Nah, I bet he’ll be faster than you.” She’s wondering who they’re talking about, when she sees Barry come racing around the corner of the stables and skidding to a stop just before them. She then notices the small line scraped into the grass – they’re obviously racing each other, happy from the adrenaline and exercise.

Wally’s the first to spot her and Linda, a slight sheen of sweat gleaming across his cheeks and forehead. He grins at her. “You coming to try your own speed?” He calls, making Cisco and Barry turn as well to notice her. She doesn’t miss the way he puffs up his chest a little as he sees Linda.

“I don’t think my skirt would give me much of an advantage,” she calls back, drawing to within a few feet of them.

It’s only when they get so close that she fully takes in Barry, and the sight of him nearly makes her stop in her tracks.

His shirt is loose, unbuttoned to past his pectoral muscles, and the blotches of red across his chest should be more unattractive than they are. It’s the first time she’s really acknowledged, even internally, that he is good-looking, almost unfairly so. Objectively, of course.

She’s always known he’s cute, but now, breathing hard and shining, he’s enough to make her feel a little nervous, which is mad. There’s a light in his eyes as he looks straight back at her, almost as if he knows what she’s thinking.

She wills away the blush, and turns to look at Cisco and Wally. “So you’re just racing each other? How old are you again?”

“Barry said he was one of the fastest runners in Central City,” Cisco defends.

“And obviously we had to put that to the test,” Wally finishes, directing his grin at Linda, who only rolls her eyes.

“Yeah?” Iris steels herself, and whatever ridiculous mood has come over her, to raise an eyebrow at Barry. “And what are the results?”

“So far, he and Wally are almost exactly the same speed at long distance. We were just about to do a sprint race,” explains Cisco.

“You’re welcome to join,” Barry says, teasing. She’s tempted to say yes, just to see how he’d react. But she knows for a fact that Wally is so much faster than her, and if Barry’s the same kind of speed, she’d only embarrass herself.

“Enough jibber-jabber,” Wally demands, side-stepping to where another line has been dug out in the soil. “Come on, Barry, let’s go.”

“You’re on.”

It surprises Iris how pleased she is that the three are getting along so well. She’d been half-heartedly worrying for a while that Barry wasn’t settling here – though he says he doesn’t have many friends in Central City, she can’t imagine his kind and intelligent personality didn’t make some. And he must be homesick, being away from his dad..

The two men speed away at Cisco’s shout, legs and arms pumping and poses crouched. They’re both fast – even Wally seems faster than Iris remembers, and they reach the finish line, about fifty feet away, in less than a minute.

She couldn’t tell you the results if you put a sword to her chest, but Wally’s cheering would certainly give her an educated guess, as he puts his arms straight in the air. Barry lets out an exaggerated groan, slowing to a jog as they circle back to Cisco and the two women.

“Still the fastest in the West kingdom,” Wally crows, as graceful in victory as always.

Barry rolls his eyes, though his lips still curve in good humour. “Yeah, yeah, you got lucky.”

“And you’ve only raced against other nobles,” Linda points out, a little coyly..

Wally pretends to be outraged at that slight, though Iris can see how he stands taller when talking to her, how he teases her and can’t get rid of the smile on his lips. Iris watches them argue, with Cisco occasionally chiming in, feeling content in a way she hasn’t for a while.

“You’re fiddling with your necklace again,” Barry says, just loud enough her her ears, from apparently nowhere, so much so that it takes her a second to realise he’s talking to her.

She startles, and realises that in her agitation, she had been rolling the small gold locket between her thumb and forefinger. She hastily lets it go.

“No, it’s fine, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he quickly says. His gaze turns speculative – she’s going to give him the benefit of doubt and say he’s examining her necklace, rather than the breasts just below it. “Who gave it to you?”

“How do you know someone gave it to me?” she counters.

“Oh. Just that you always wear it. It must be personal, I figured.” He pauses, and then asks, “Did Sir Thawne give it you?”

She colours a little at his mention, but is honest when she says, “I don’t actually know. I’ve had it since I was very young.” She lets out a soft laugh at herself. “I’ve never even been able to open it, I don’t know why I do always wear it.”

“It must have some sentimental value,” he says, and it seems like, with the intensity in those green eyes, he’s trying to say something else. “Even if you don’t know why.”

“I suppose it must,” she agrees quietly, having never really thought about it before.

“Iris, Barry!” Cisco’s call jolts them out of their conversation. For a few moments there, Iris had completely forgotten the others even existed. “Come on, Wally wants to see how fast he can swim in the lake.”

Iris puts Barry, and his focus on her necklace, out of her mind as she rolls her eyes and goes to watch her brother try and competitively drown himself.

And if she has to focus on not staring at Barry when he emerges, having beaten Wally in a front stroke race, with a soaked-through white shirt, then, well, that’s nobody’s business but hers.

-

On the walk back to the castle, Barry confesses they actually had a swimming pool in the Central City castle, and Wally declares the fact cheating. Never let it be said her brother is a gracious loser.

He and Barry walk up ahead, jostling each other and laughing - at one point, Barry manages to trap Wally in a headlock as Linda bursts with laughter at the sight. Iris finds herself with a fond smile as she watches their antics.

“Your husband’s a cool guy,” Cisco says, and she startles, having not realised he had been matching her stride beside her.

“He’s a good man,” she agrees, because how could she not? She turns to look at Cisco more carefully. “Have you been spending much time with him?”

Cisco shrugs. “I suppose. Not every waking hour, obviously, but he’s fun. And he has some good ideas, he’s obviously smart - Wally and I had been having troubles with a hydraulics system we were thinking about using, for the carriages to help propel them you know, and obviously there’s a lot of weight to consider when you’re looking at the pumps-”

Iris clears her throat pointedly - she’s intelligent in many ways, but hydraulics engineering is not one of them.

“Right, yeah, so, Barry overheard us talking about it, and he basically solved the problem we were talking about. They have amazing engineering facilities in Central City, apparently.” Cisco sounds a touch wistful - she knows he and Wally have been pestering her father to invest more in inventors and the university, but her father’s priority has always been health and defence rather than higher education.

“Do you-” she hesitates, eyes darting back to the other three in guilt, making sure they can’t hear what she’s about to ask. “Do you think he’s happy here?”

Cisco turns a speculative eye to her, and she fights the urge to fidget under his examination, reminding herself that she’s only asking a simple question. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “I mean, he still talks about Central City, but he’s making more friends here than just Wally and I. And obviously, he’d be wherever you are.”

Iris jolts at that, asks before she can think it through, “What do you mean by that?”

She may as well have asked if the sky were blue judging by Cisco’s expression. “Uh… I guess because husbands tend to prefer to be wherever their wives are?”

Right – Cisco is one of the thousands who thinks Barry and Iris married for love, or at least because of the betrothal agreement. She fakes a casual laugh, tucking a lock of dark hair back behind her ear. “Right.”

Linda saves her from Cisco’s too-knowing look by skipping back to join them, linking her arm through Iris’. “This is nice,” she says, quietly, just for Iris’s ears to hear.

Iris would ask her what she means, but she knows. It’s unseasonably warm for winter, and the boys’ laughter fills the air. She feels light, and young, and carefree, and it’s a nice way to feel. She can’t help but wonder how much of that is down to Barry – Iris was always friends with Linda and Wally, and she knew Cisco, but the four of them had ever particularly been like this with each other, never had so much fun as a whole group. The thought of Barry filling a gap they didn’t even know existed makes her both pleased and worried for what will happen when he leaves.

When they reach the castle, Linda, Wally and Cisco leave to go through the servant’s entrance, announcing they’re going to the laundry rooms to sort out Wally’s clothes.

Iris expects Barry to go with them for the same reason as she turns to go through one of the east quarter doors, and jumps in surprise when he catches up to her instead. “Your clothes,” she says, rather stupidly, and forces herself to wrench her gaze from them, and the way they cling to his frame.

“I’ll just hang them myself,” he dismisses, tugging at the side of his shirt (which only makes it taut along his other ribs, but, again, she’s not looking). “They’re almost dry now anyway. No point making the maids do extra work because I’m competitive.”

She grins. “Does everyone in Central City take swimming so seriously?”

He laughs as they walk through the huge doors, taking a left to go in the direction of their bedchambers. Because of the entrance they used, they’ll have to go past the dining halls and reception rooms, but there shouldn’t be many people around considering the mid-afternoon hour. “Not exactly,” he says. “I was never really sporty myself, to be honest.”

She scoffs. “Your sprinting time would beg to differ.”

“It’s true!” he defends. “I was a late bloomer.”

They round the corner as she lets out a giggle. At his questioning, she explains, “I’m just trying to imagine you as a kid, but I can’t see you being less than six foot tall.”

He rolls his eyes. “At least I actually grew.”

She makes an expression of mock-outrage. “Are you saying I’m short?”

They bicker good-naturedly, just a few minutes walk from their bedchambers, when Iris halts suddenly, remembering, “Oh, I left my notebook in the library!” Her features are apologetic as she turns to Barry, though she couldn’t tell you why her departure warrants a, “Sorry! I’ll catch up with you later.”

With that, she darts away. She wouldn’t usually be in such a rush, but the last time she’d left her notebook, full of important information from her tutor sessions and meetings with advisors, it had been tidied up by one of the maids who had no idea the difference between it or any of the other books in the library. It had taken Iris a full afternoon to find it hidden amongst the shelves.

But as she’s making her way past the throne-room, she stops in her tracks as she catches sight of her father up ahead in the corridor. He’s with someone else, a dark-haired and middle-aged man, though handsome despite his age. He wears spectacles, an odd choice considering how little people here in the West kingdom use lenses on an everyday basis.

She takes another step closer, intending to just walk on past them, but realises her instincts were right to stay away: her father gestures angrily, an odd sight considering Joe’s usual calm demeanour.

The man doesn’t look perturbed, and Iris has to give him a little credit for not bending in the face of a King’s anger. She doesn’t want them to notice she’s here, but she definitely wants to hear what they’re discussing. (Some people might call this nosiness, but she prefers innocent curiosity.)

Her father leans back, folding his arms across his chest, a posture Iris recognises easily as ‘unimpressed.’

The other man leans forward animatedly - Iris wishes she could sneak forward just a little, but she’s already exposed in the middle of the corridor. She’s fortunate that the two are so engrossed in their own conversation that they don’t notice her.

Her father says something else, and then the other man’s voice raises just enough that Iris hears a snippet of his speech, “-get over old events!”

The voice is what forces her recollection: Lord Wells. 

He hadn't been here for years, she thought - though it's equally possible he had visited her wedding, and she simply didn't notice, too wrapped up in her own thoughts. She knows his daughter better, Jesse, but even she hasn't been a familiar face in a while. 

Wells visibly calms himself, taking a step back, although he doesn’t seem at all sorry for the outburst, or for even arguing with a king. Iris itches to know more, even as he says something else, bowing stiffly and then walking away in the other direction.

Iris watches as her father closes his eyes, tilting his head back, and deeply exhaling. He’s probably stressed - but she darts forward anyway, and his eyes flash back open at the sound of her footsteps. As soon as he catches sight of her, and her raised eyebrows, he lets out a small groan. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Not enough,” she replies smoothly. “Wasn't that-?"

“Lord Wells, yes,” Joe says. “We were having a small disagreement, that’s all.”

“What about?” she persists.

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s a minor issue.”

“But-”

He holds up a hand. “It’s not even enough of an issue for you to use the ‘I’m the future Queen’ excuse, so don’t even try it.”

Iris’ mouth closes, and she mutters, unconvincingly, “That’s not what I was going to say.” She tries a different tactic. “I thought he'd gone to Gotham, anyway - what’s he doing here? I thought we weren’t having any visitors to the castle for a while.”

“I thought he was just here to discuss business,” her father says, twisting his lips. “But he asked a favour I couldn’t grant.”

“What-”

“It’s really not that important, Iris,” her father says, and he smiles, reaching to gently cuff her under the chin. “Now, come on, you can tell me why your brother was racing your husband in the lake instead.”

She blushes, for some odd reason, and starts telling him about Wally’s competitiveness, and Barry’s apparent athleticism.

But she can’t quite shake the suspicion of the conversation, and she resolves to keep Lord Wells under a careful eye. After all, haven’t they learned their lesson about taking friendly faces for granted?


	5. Chapter 5

Iris jabs at the hanging burlap sack with her sword – it would be a killing blow if she didn’t halt her arm just in time, well aware that she has only one sack of grain left to practice with for today.

She’s wearing leather pants and a loose dress shirt haphazardly tucked in – sparring in a dress is no easy feat. The midday sun streaks across the straw-covered floor, which is occasionally displaced and kicked up by Iris’s fast footwork.

Very few people know about Iris’s sparring practices in the old, unused barn. Certainly, she had never told Eddie, always too afraid he would disapprove, or even worse, laugh at her. But it’s fun exercise, and gives something for her and Wally to do together to burn off steam. And who says a princess shouldn’t be able to defend herself with a sword?

Wally himself has just left, begging off on the excuse of a sore leg when Iris knows for a fact he saw Linda pass by with some flowers for the dining room. So, she’s currently practising against a hung bag of grain, just about the size and height of an average torso, slashing and spinning and stabbing with her admittedly-blunt sword.

She’s starting to break a sweat when she spins for a particularly complex move, and spots a sudden shape from the corner of her eye. She misjudges the movement in her shock and slices straight across the bag, cutting it neatly in two. The bottom half falls in a dull thud to the floor, spilling grain everywhere.

Panting, Iris turns to see who threw her off her concentration – by this point, perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised that it’s Barry standing there.

He raises a single eyebrow. “I have to admit, not what I was expecting when Wally told me you’d be here.”

She’s a little perturbed that Wally told Barry that – she’d thought they had an unspoken understanding that their sparring sessions were secret. But she’s also feeling adrenaline-heavy from the exercise, which is the only real reason for her to cock her hip and level a challenging look. “Oh? And what were you expecting?”

He moves into the space, and she notices he’s only wearing casual clothes as well. And she can’t be imagining the way he looks her, and her own attire, over. The dim light of the barn makes his eyes darken. “For one thing, I was expecting a book in your hand, not a sword.”

“Can’t a person defend themselves and articulate themselves?” she counter.

“True,” he agrees, walking closer. She notices the way his eyes roam over her, and her body reacts without her permission, a flush of her cheeks and a strange, unbidden coil of heat in her gut.

“How long have you been sparring?” he asks, and she should stop this, should make an excuse to leave and end this weird, crackling moment.

“Since I was young,” she says, instead. She twirls her blade thoughtlessly, and notices how he watches the sword spin, how his wrist twitches with the impatience of someone who wants to take over. “How long have you?”

He looks up in surprise at the surety in her voice, but then admits, “My father started teaching me after my mother died.”

She has a dangerous idea, Wally’s sword left behind and barely a foot away from her. She reaches out and, using a showy move that has never particular come in use before now, kicks the sword up and catches it in one smooth move. She holds it out, and he moves forward to take it, eyes never leaving hers.

“Prove it,” she says, and this is such a bad idea.

He looks at her for a long moment, as if searching for something in her face. He must find it, because he moves his right foot back to balance his weight, and holds his sword in the classic starting position. “Bring it on,” he challenges, and, well, she can’t resist a demand like that.

Their limbs move in a flurry of movement, metal clashing against metal in quick, loud clangs. The swords are relatively blunt, designed for practising with, and when Iris gets in a swipe by Barry’s arm, it only just snags the fabric of his shirt. He quickly counters with a jab to her thigh that is no more painful than a finger poke.

They’re both breathing hard, focused and working for each movement. He’s clearly skilled, managing to meet her every parry and thrust, and he seems equally impressed with her own technique.

She misjudges a spin, after a few moments of evenly-matched combat, and he grabs at her with his other arm, pulling her back against his torso. His arm is stretched across her collarbone and his sword pointed at her jaw.

“Does this mean I win?” he asks, and his breath is warm across her ear, and she feels a jolt low in her stomach at the sensation. She’s pressed all up along him, with only thin fabric separating them, and she can feel the beat of his pulse against her spine. She’s fiercely glad that she isn’t facing him, that she wouldn’t be tempted to do anything mad in this position.

She tenses her jaw. “Not quite.” She pushes up on his arm at the same time as kicking back. Her heel connects with his shin and he recoils at the pain. She twirls away from him, and aims her sword just as he looks up, holding the tip against his Adam’s apple. “Concede?” She asks, perfectly aware of her own smirk and hot eyes.

But he doesn’t seem irritated at his defeat - even Wally gets frustrated to be beaten, and anyone else she’s sparred with has been outright angry if she were to win - but his expression is unreadable, almost assessing. There’s certainly no mistaking the heat in his eyes, but what is confusing is her reaction, as if she wants something deep in her gut, she wants…she wants.

She withdraws her sword, but he doesn’t move. The air feels thick, and she can smell his sweat, and his hair is mussed from the fight. She has a mad urge to do something, but she bites it back. “You’re good with a sword,” she says instead.

“You too,” he replies, and asks, as if just out of curiosity, “Who do you practice with?”

“Just Wally,” she admits, and explains, without even thinking about it, “I think most people I know would be horrified that I’m learning to use a sword rather than stitching.”

He nods, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and says, “They’d be idiots, then.” He looks around them as if to gesture to their shabby surroundings. “Is that why you practise in the barn?”

She shrugs. “No-one comes in here, really. My dad wanted to knock it down a few years ago to make room for a chicken coop, but I convinced him we could keep it for emergencies.”

He smiles appreciatively. “Sly work, Princess West.”

“I prefer to call it diplomacy,” she counters, only managing to hold a straight face for a few moments before she laughs. She feels happy and light from the exercise, from the freedom of showing this side of her to a whole other person and having them accept it.

But a thought seems to have grabbed hold of him, and he’s looking at something to his left. She follows his gaze, and sees only the doorway, slightly ajar. “You know,” he says contemplatively. “I bet you’d be even better if you were able to see properly.”

She freezes. “You’re not suggesting what I think you are, are you?”

He turns back to her, a daring gleam to his green eyes. “Let’s go practice outside.”

“No way.”

“Come on, you’re breathing in straw here!” he argues. “And it’s perfect weather outside, you can’t waste it in a stuffy barn.”

“I was going to go for a walk later this afternoon anyway,” she refutes smoothly, not wanting to admit how much the idea tempts her. “I’ll get to appreciate it then.”

He narrows his eyes, and she rallies herself for another point to dispute. But then his expression clears, a little too easily, and he adopts innocent, relaxed features as he says, “You worried I’ll beat you if I can actually see you? That’s fair, I get that.”

She is not going to be tricked by such a lazy attempt at taunting. She’s stronger than that. She is royalty, she- “You can see me just fine, that is not why you won.”

His eyebrows raise. “Well, I’m going to spar out on the lawns,” he says, just a shade too casual to be believable. “If you don’t show, I’ll just assume you’ve forfeited to save your dignity.”

He takes a sideways step towards the door, looking up to the sky as if to further ensure his nonchalance. She holds up her finger as a warning, fighting to hold back her laughter. He takes another step, and then quickly strides outside, ignoring her cry of “Barry!”.

She’s left alone in the barn. She looks up at the ceiling, as if that’ll give her any advice. She lets out a sharp huff, mostly at her own mind apparently vacating the premises, and goes to follow him into the daytime fresh air.

She’s self-conscious in her loose clothes as soon as she steps through the doorway, but it makes it easier seeing Barry waiting for her a few yards away, the sun glinting off his rumpled hair and sweat-shined cheeks.

There’s no one about, and the lawn is private land so not even the servants come here, confirmed by her furtive glances all around. Barry waits patiently, barely moving as if the slightest flinch will frighten her. She swallows down her self-consciousness, buries it where she leaves her fears about one day ruling and her worries about Wally’s knight training.

She walks forward, and halts a yard away from him. She balances her weight onto the balls of her feet, with one foot stepping back for stability and she bends her knees a little. She raises her sword in the classic starting position, and cocks a brow at Barry. “Let’s see if the sunlight does you any favours then, Prince.”

He grins, and they begin.

They spin and circle and clash, blades sparking in the sunlight and feet skidding in the frost-tipped grass. It’s cold enough that their breath comes out foggy, but just warm enough to keep their muscles loose and their movements flexible. She blocks his attack, he avoids her feint. She barely has to think about her next move, what technique she should imitate from the books she’s read and the moves she’s learned from Wally - it’s like she can read his every flinch, every flicker of his eyes, every strike of his sword. It’s like dancing, except it’s far more fun, and they set their own rhythm.

She’s laughing when he manages to jab her with her sword, and he fakes pain when she darts in with the point of her sword. This is a different kind of madness to the feelings she felt in the barn, this is something looser and funnier and happier. Barry still looks objectively handsome, cheekbones flushed and hair sticking up in all directions, but at least she feels less weird about it out here.

“Princess West-Allen.”

Iris feels as if she’s been doused in cold water.

She slowly turns, and sees Lord Wells standing there, obviously on his way to the castle before catching sight of them. Luckily, he’s alone, but his disapproval of the scene in front of him is obvious.

She doesn’t even have time to stammer out his name in greeting before he’s speaking again, eyebrow raised over those strange spectacles.

“And Prince West-Allen. Is the honeymoon period over so quickly?” His pointed gaze falls to their swords, still frozen in position against each other.

“We were just practising,” Iris says quickly, feeling stupid and awkward in such a state of casual dress in front of him, in a way she certainly didn’t feel with Barry.

Lord Wells makes a non-committal sound, like a hum, yet it manages to convey his scepticism easily. “Perhaps it was a good job I didn’t bring my daughter with me today.”

The simple statement affects Iris as much as if he’d directly slapped her. She’s grown up with the knowledge and weight of being a role model to the citizens of West Kingdom, girls and women especially. She’s never done anything to even taint that fact. The very idea of disappointing Jessie Wells is a sour one indeed.

Lord Wells turns away again to continue his path up towards the castle. Contradictory to the ice pooling in her veins, her cheeks feel hot, and she drops her sword as if branded. Barry looks to her, hearing the thud of the metal landing in the grass, and frowns. “Iris?”

“I’m feeling tired,” she says, words rushing together, already backing away. “I should go, I just remembered I have to see my father.“

“Hey,” he catches up to her with little effort, grabbing onto her upper arm loosely to hold her attention. “Iris, come on, ignore him. We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“We shouldn’t have been doing it in broad daylight like that. I certainly shouldn’t have,” she replies, still feeling a little raw from her embarrassment. “It was childish.”

"It was fun,” he disagrees. “No-one respects you any less. If anything, they probably respect you more for that move with the switching between hands, that was inspiring.”

She’d hate to admit it, but his assurance does go somewhat to alleviating her stress. She thinks for a moment, before saying, “Fine.” She points a finger at him. “But next time we practise in the back gardens of the castle, not on the front lawn.”

A grin breaks out across his face. “Absolutely.” He turns to look back at Wells’ retreating back, frowning a little in thought.

“He must be meeting my father,” Iris says, presumably wondering the same thing Barry is. Before they can discuss it further, Iris sees some of the townspeople walking up to the pathway. Her father must be hosting petitions from citizens. She quickly turns to Barry. “I certainly don’t think they need to see me in these clothes. I’ll see you later, alright?”

He murmurs something like assent, still staring in the same direction, and she darts away before she can think any more about it, already planning whether she could commission a more sensible tunic to be worn for sparring.

-

A few days later, she has her monthly check-in with Caitlin. It used to be only every year-quarter the royal family were obliged to see the court doctor, but recent events had scared Joe enough to make the visits more frequent.

She knocks on the door of her office, a room in the east section of the castle. "Come in!” Caitlin’s voice calls, and Iris pushes it open with a twist of the doorknob.

Doctor Snow sits behind a desk brimming with potions and papers and books, and every inch of the circular room’s walls is taken up by shelves full of ingredients. Iris is glad their kingdom has developed enough to have left the witchcraft and more awful medical treatments behind, but she still hopes she never gets whatever illness that requires the rats’ eyes looking at her from one jar, or the live worms wriggling about in another.

Caitlin’s greeting smile is as genuine as ever as Iris goes to sit down on the examining bed. “Princess, how are you?”

“I’m good, thanks, Cait,” Iris replies, swinging her feet a little. It’s custom for the people employed by the castle – and all citizens of the realm, really – to address Iris by her title, but Iris knows Caitlin too well to encourage the formality. “How are you? I feel like I haven’t seen you for ages!”

“Well, you’ve been busy with your new husband, haven’t you?” Caitlin replies slyly as she steps around her desk and grabs one of her examining tools.

Iris fights the answering blush. “I’ve been helping him settle.”

“Oh, I’m just teasing,” Caitlin smiles. “Now open your mouth wide, please.”

Iris obeys, even making the ‘ahh sound’ as Caitlin holds down a tongue with some kind of metal spoon.

“And you’ve been feeling alright?” she asks. “No stomach pains or weird feelings?”

Iris thinks about mentioning the weird heat in her stomach that appears at inopportune moments these days, but easily decides not to, shaking her head ‘no’ instead.

“Any headaches, blurry vision, joint ache?”

Iris shakes her head again. “I haven’t even grazed my knees, I promise.”

Caitlin rolls her eyes, even as she holds Iris’s chin still so she can look into her eyes carefully, and then clasp her wrist to check her pulse. “If you’re feeling so healthy, perhaps you could remind your brother that he still needs to come in for his appointment.”

Iris chuckles. “I’ll try, but he’s still traumatised after you treated him for a blood infection.”

Caitlin huffs. “If he didn’t want leeches, he shouldn’t have let that sword wound go untreated for so long. Maybe he’ll listen to me next time about the benefits of wrapping up a bleeding cut.”

“I’ll pass on the message,” Iris promises, lips curling as she doubts very much she’ll be able to convince Wally to come voluntarily back.

Caitlin taps Iris’ knee, and then prepares a bag of smoking incense, waving it around Iris’ head to cleanse the bad germs. She’s never understood her methods, but they seem to work. When her father hired Caitlin, about four years ago to replace their previous physician, he assured them all she came from the highest recommendations in national City.

The thought reminds Iris: “Weren’t you going to go visit your mother a few weeks ago?”

The question clearly startles Caitlin, the incense jolting erratically before she smoothes her expression back to cordial. “Oh. Well, I was. I asked the King for some time off, yes. But, uh, my plans got cancelled.”

“That sucks,” Iris commiserates. “How come?”

“I…” Caitlin sighs, letting her hand fall back to her side as she looks at the floor. “I was actually the one who cancelled them. I was supposed to visit my mother, but I haven’t been back there since- since Ronnie.”

“Oh, Cait,” Iris breathes in sympathy, reaching up to gently hold Caitlin’s arms, trying to give any support she can. She knows the story well, having been there a few weeks into Caitlin’s employment at the West castle when she drank too much at a winter feast and told Iris and Cisco, who had helped her back to her bedchambers, the whole story. Five years ago, Caitlin’s fiancée, Ronnie, was taken by bandits when they were travelling from Starling Kingdom to Central City, where Caitlin had originally been raised.

“I’m being silly,” Caitlin admits quietly.

“You’re absolutely not,” Iris refutes. “Your mother will understand. It takes time to mourn someone, Cait, it’s okay to take it at your own pace.”

But Caitlin twists her lips, and says in a small voice, “I don’t think I’m mourning.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s stupid, Iris, I know, but there’s this part of me that still thinks he’s alive.” Caitlin looks to her right, hiding her eyes from Iris but not before she sees the gleam of moisture on them.

Iris doesn’t know what to say to that.

Caitlin must easily see through her silence, because she adds, “You don’t have to say it, I know it’s a ridiculous hope.”

Iris swallows. “They say a lot of people deny…when something bad happens.”

“I would feel it,” Caitlin says, abruptly, strong in her conviction. “I would feel that’s he’s dead. I would know.”

Iris doesn’t know what to say that. Caitlin’s asked her before, of course, asked her about any new reports of bandits in the area, but the answer’s always the the same. Iris even sent a small search party a few months after she first found out, but they found nothing.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Caitlin says, looking at her hands as if they might hold the answer, or, as if someone else’s belong with them. “But he’s my soulmate. My heart should be as cold as his is.” She looks back up, fixing Iris with an intense gaze. “Don’t you feel the same about Barry? Like if anything happened…you’d know, deep in your bones.”

The very idea of Barry hurt, never mind presumed dead, makes Iris’s stomach physically jolt, as if someone had just stabbed her. But she swallows past the feeling, and says, “I- I just don’t know if it works like that, Cait.”

Caitlin twists her lips. “Maybe not.”

-

She moves to the drawing room after her appointment with Caitlin, making sure she hugs her friend extra tight before she leaves. She doesn’t know how to help Caitlin, doesn’t even know how to begin.

She’s hoping to distract herself by writing a letter to Eddie. But it takes only writing ‘Dear Sir Thawne’ before she’s struggling to think of things to say. She’s been spending more and more time with Barry, but it seems unfair to tell Eddie about that, almost like she’s just rubbing the wound with salt. She’s tapping the quill against the table before dipping it into the ink, trying to drum up any words at all.

But she’s saved from her mental block by a knock on the door. She twists around in her chair and calls, “Yes?”

Barry pokes first his head around the door, and then his whole body when he sees she’s alone. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

For some reason, she wants to hide the evidence of writing the letter, knowing he’ll easily deduce its receiver. But she just smiles, shakes her head and says, “Not at all. What can I help you with?”

Something’s off with him, but she can’t quite work out what it is. She must have gotten greedy with his smiles, now sorely noticing the lack of one on his face. “I- Sorry, this will sound stupid.”

“Even if does, I promise not to laugh,” she says, standing. He’s twiddling with his fingers, and she wants to hold his hands to calm them, wants him to sit down on the sofa with her so she can draw out of him what’s really going on. His eyes flit around, never resting on one thing for too long. “Barry, you know you can tell me anything.”

“I was going round the gardens,” he says, which is nothing out of the ordinary. “But, um, I couldn’t find any roses.”

“Oh.” That’s certainly not what Iris was expecting. “Well, Mother’s allergic, so we don’t have any on the castle grounds.”

If she was stumped by this conversation before, then that’s nothing compared to the shock she feels at seeing Barry’s expression crumple, just for a second, before he composes himself. “Oh. Right, okay. Never mind then.” He turns to leave and she quickly stands, reaching for him.

“Barry, wait-”

“It’s fine,” he says, and she’d have to be a fool indeed not to notice how much effort he puts into making his tone jovial. He’s still not looking at her. “Really, I’m being-”

Her footsteps are quick across the room and she does what she’s wanted to do this entire conversation - she grasps his hands, and wills him to look her in the eye. He finally lifts his gaze, and the wild emotion she sees swirling in those green eyes cuts surprisingly deep. “Barry. Please. Tell me.”

He takes a deep breath, passes the tip of his tongue across his upper lip. “It’s my mother’s birthday today,” he finally says.

Iris’s hands squeeze around his instinctively. She doesn’t know what she can possibly say.

“I usually take roses to her tomb, but, obviously that’s back in Central City.”

“We’ll go,” Iris says, without any hesitance. “I’ll get a carriage, and-”

He lets out a small chuckle. “No, Iris, it’s fine. It’s too long a journey.” He adds, quietly, “Thanks, though.”

“Anything you need,” she says, vehement and surprised at how much she means it.

He twists his lips, and she’s going to have something strong to say if he tries to tell her ‘it’s fine’ again. But he asks, “Do you know where I might find some roses? Is there a florist in the town?”

She takes a moment to think about it. “The farmer’s market isn’t for a few days, but I know where we can find a rose bush, near the forest.”

He’s visibly surprised. “Oh, you-”

“I’d like to come with you,” she says, quickly, before he can finish his sentence and make his escape, and before she can convince herself that she shouldn’t involve herself. There’s something deep in her gut that tells her she shouldn’t leave him alone, not today.

He tilts his head and she realises that maybe he didn’t want any company at all. She’s probably intruding, and she opens her mouth to quickly retract the offer - as she does so, he says, “Yeah, okay. That would be nice, yeah.”

Their walk out of the castle is quiet – Iris doesn’t know what to say.

Her only experience with a parent and death was Francine’s attack just a few weeks ago, and Barry was part of her keeping it together. She wants to return the favour, wants to be of some small comfort to him. But as much as she just wants to hug him until all his pain goes away, she understands that’s probably not feasible.

She leads him along the path to the forest, taking one of the quieter routes since she’s guessing he doesn’t want to run the risk of conversation or chatter. The climate of the West kingdom means that though it’s chilly with winter, there’s still enough wildlife growing that they spot a bush of roses soon enough.

“Oh!” Iris says, a sudden thought occurring to her, as they approach it. Barry looks at her with the question in his eyes. “Did we bring anything to cut it with?”

He smiles at her concern, and pulls a small knife from her pocket knife. He kneels down and, after a moment of examining which stem to pluck, he pulls away a rose. It’s white, a little stained along the rims but all the more real for it.

He stands up, holding it. Iris realises the next step would usually be to visit Nora’s tomb, but obviously that’s all the way back in Central City. She asks, gently, “What do you want to do with it?”

He twists his lips, looking down at the rose. He rolls it between two fingers as he thinks. “My mother… she loved sunsets. I usually watch the sun go down by her tomb.”

These pieces of information feel valuable, and it’s not lost on Iris the power Barry is giving to her with them. She suggests, “The sun sets in a couple hours. And I think I know the perfect place to view it from.” Following her instincts, she holds out her hand, and Barry takes it without a moment’s hesitation. “Follow me.”

She doesn’t let go of his hand throughout the journey through the forest. They reach the upward slope within a few moments, a steady gradient that goes up and up. Iris found this place originally with Linda when she was young - they were looking for the best place to see the bi-annual kingdom parade as it moved around the nearby land. Eventually, they reach the clearing then to a hill that extends even above the trees. It’s a unique spot, one that Iris has never been able to surpass. She just hopes it’s good enough for Barry.

She looks to him to judge his reaction, but he’s looking at her like she’s done something amazing, when really all she’s done is taken him through the bush and up to a hill. She’s done nothing compared to what he deserves on this day, so she turns away, letting go of his hand as she walks to a patch of grass. She sits down, curling her skirt around her so as not to leave a grass stain on the ass, and then she pats the area around her as a hint for Barry. He obliges, and they face the west. Already, the light is beginning to dim - she’d guess might will be on them within the next two hours.

Barry places the rose down in front of him, and then leans back, resting on straight arms, to look up at the sky. She keeps her legs crossed and her back straight, but her head tilts to admire the same view.

She’s always found dusk a beautiful time of day, the warm hues stretching and floating across the sky. The sun slowly begins its descent, soothing and constant and lovely. She only met Nora once, and the memory is hazy at best, but thinks she would’ve been the type of woman to enjoy a sunset.

A tear spills over and escapes down her cheek. She feels guilty for it, for intruding on Barry’s mourning, but something resonates with how nearly she’d lost her own mother, and how lovely a person Nora must have been to have even some influence on her son.

Wordlessly, Barry’s hand reaches and links their fingers together again. She wipes away the tears with a hasty palm of her other hand, but Barry only squeezes his fingers against her knuckles, as if he’s giving her permission to join in this moment of remembrance, of mourning. “Thanks for doing this,” he says, quietly, and, “Thanks for being here, Iris.”

And she’ll regret her rashness later, but she promises, and she means it, “Always.”

-

Even when the sun fully hides, and they’re left in relative darkness, they still don’t move for a few moments. They’ve constructed a careful bubble, and Iris isn’t so sure she wants to break it. But the nighttime chill is too pervasive to ignore, and they stand to make their way back. Their hands let go of each other.

She imagines the walk back to be as silent as most of this evening has been. But Barry surprises her by saying, juas they leave the forest, “I know public mourning is more traditional for a queen, but my father was always afraid it would look too false. I hate that, that rumours could make him so self-conscious.”

Iris doesn’t hide the undercurrent of venom from her voice when she says, “Anyone who could believe Henry would harm anyone doesn’t deserve to say Nora’s name.”

“You- you believe him?” Barry asks, sounding surprised. She realises she’s never broached the subject with him.

“Of course,” she says.

He doesn't say anything, and then admits, quietly, "I was there."

She frowns, thinking he means he was there for the whole ordeal, in the castle when it happened and for the ensuring investigation. But then she realises. “You- you were in the room?"

"My mother was getting ready, I was playing in her chambers," he says, after a pause, and she can't ignore the waver to his voice. "He wore a mask. He just strode in, and-" His voice breaks and he doesn't continue.

"How old were you?" she asks, barely louder than a whisper.

He lets out a bitter scoff. "Young enough that no-one believe that I knew it wasn't my father. That I even saw the man had a mask."

"They thought you were covering up for your father," she realises aloud.

"He had blue eyes." He looks at her, finally, and she sees there in his eyes all the people who told him he was lying, all the people who thought he'd made it up. "I can't remember much of it, but I remember that. The man who murdered my mother had blue eyes."

She stops them both, and holds onto his arms for his attention. "Barry - if you say it wasn't Henry, it wasn't Henry. I believe my father, I believe yours, and I believe you."

The corners of his tighten, just minutely, as if in disbelief. “I never saw his face,” Barry counters. "I really was young - maybe I made it up to console myself."

“You would have known your father’s face, even under a mask,” she replies dismissively. Then she frowns. “Are... you trying to convince me not to believe you?”

“I just-” he shakes his head. “No one ever has.”

"Well," she says, and maybe another person might be more cautious in this steadfast trust, but she's always listened to her gut. And her whole body is screaming at her to trust this man, to trust her husband. "Maybe it is daft of me to ignore the circumstantial evidence, and other people’s suspect. But I do believe you. I do."

Barry seems to be lost in thought as they start walking again, and reach the castle grounds, nodding their heads in instinctive respect as they’re let through the gate. 

They’ve reached the corridor of their neighbouring bedchambers, and Barry stops. “Iris,” he says, and then seems to struggle for the words. “I- thank you.” He lets out a huff of humourless laughter. “I seem to be saying that a lot this evening. But it- it’s a small, really big thing, having someone believe in me.”

Again, the instinct to hug him rises in her, but she pushes it down. Instead, she asks, “Do you usually spend the day with your father?”

He nods. “We go to her grave together. I’m usually in charge of getting the roses - I think my dad just gave me it as something to do when I was young, but, it stuck.” He shrugs, as if it’s a little thing, as if he isn’t trusting her with such intimate information.

“Do you miss him?” she asks. Guilt pangs at her - Barry had been growing closer to her friends, but she’d been flippant about how it must be to leave one’s home, one’s kingdom. For a fake marriage, at that, not even a real one.

He shrugs. “Sometimes. But… but it was worth it, coming here.”

She knows that’s a reference to the peace they’ve brought to their kingdoms, and the guilt swirls more angrily, that he’s given up as much as she had but he’s the one who’s had to leave their home, their family. It’s tradition for the husband to move to the bride’s house, and anyway, it makes sense due to the larger territory the West Kingdom possesses. Still, it must be hard for him.

“Anyway, I think I’m just going to go to bed early,” Barry says, stepping away (when did they stand so close?) and moving towards his own chambers. “Goodnight, Iris.”

“Good night’, she replies softly. She watches him leave, an idea unfurling and taking shape in her mind. She needs to go speak to her father.

-

As soon as the last details have been confirmed, a few days later, she races to Barry’s bedchambers, excited to tell him the good news. It’s customary for newlywed royals to go on their honeymoon on their month anniversary, which is coming up in the next few days. And she saw this as a perfect opportunity to show Barry how grateful she is for all he’s done, and to hopefully cheer him up. He’s been wonderful about this whole thing, but she’s been perhaps callous about the fact he’d moved away from his home, and she hadn’t been exactly accommodating during the first week.

She knocks on his door, and even calls, “Barry!”

The door finally swings open a few moments later, when she was starting to think he wasn’t in. For a moment, she loses her words. He’s obviously been napping, a pillow crease across his right cheek and his hair mussed. She has a crazy urge to rub her hands through it, to press her lips gently against the red line in his skin. His eyes are bleary, the tip of his nose a little pink - he looks almost unbearably cute. “Iris?” He croaks.

She refocuses. “Oh, um, sorry for disturbing you.”

“It’s fine,” he says, and leans away to stretch out his back. She absolutely does not notice the way his shirt pulls across his chest. “I shouldn’t have been sleeping anyway, I just fell asleep in the sun. What is it?”

She grins, unable to excitement. “We’re going to Central City for our honeymoon.”

He blinks once, twice, as the information filters through the fog of sleep. She can see the exact moment it processes, as his eyes widen and a grin breaks out across his face. “For real?”

She nods quickly. “I just finalised the details. We’ll be staying with your Dad, if that’s okay? And we’ll be there for a week. I thought you could show me around - after all, I am Princess of Central City as well, now.” He doesn’t reply, and she pauses her enthusiasm, trying to read his expression. “Is that alright?”

His mouth opens a little, but it takes him a moment, in which iris starts to panic, before saying, “It’s _amazing_." His voice is obvious in its honesty, a little shaky and his eyes a little bright . “Iris, this is- thank you.”

And then, without warning, he leans forward and wraps her in a tight hug, one arm curling around the base of her back and the other around her shoulders. She has no choice, really, but to fold her own arms around him, and the position only demands that she should press her face into his neck. He doesn’t let her go for a moment, and she realises his own face is curved into her hair. It’s intimate, impolitely so, which doesn’t explain why she struggles to pull away. Eventually, he relinquishes his hold on her, and she steps back, feeling inexplicably warm.

She clears her throat. “Well, I’m glad. We leave in a few days.”

She can feel his eyes on her as she leaves, and it’s more of a struggle than she would have predicted to not look back.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait!

Iris can’t stop staring outside the window of their carriage, and hasn’t been able to since they passed through Central City’s city walls, much to Barry’s amusement. She loves travelling to new places, but has very little opportunity to. Most diplomats and nobles will come to West Castle, and she has little other excuses apart from balls and meetings to leave the kingdom. Central City is the largest urban settlement she’s visited, and she can’t help but stare at all the oddities.

“Look at that market stall!” she says, even pointing at it as they rattle past on the cobbled streets. “Barry, they were selling free-standing clocks! That’s amazing. Oh, do you smell that food? Can we stop? It smells delicious.”

He’s laughing at her, smiling the kind of smile that makes his whole face crinkle. “It’s just paella. We can have the chefs make it when we get to the castle, we don’t need to stop.”

“But it smells so good!” Iris protests, turning back to plead at him with big eyes. But he only laughs at her, not quite seeming to understand how important good food is to her.

She turns to look back out the window, unapologetically reveling in the new sights and sounds and smells.

“Before we arrive,” Barry begins, sounding hesitant. “There’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Yeah?” Iris is watching some children playing with some wooden bird toys which soar through the air when thrown, so she isn’t concentrating enough to notice the serious tone to his voice.

“We, ah, might have to kiss in public,“ Barry says, almost apologetically. “The Central City people didn’t see our wedding, so they might, I don’t know, expect some show of intimacy.”

Iris’s brain is still rewinding the ‘kiss in public’ bit, so she takes a beat slightly too long to turn and respond. “Oh. Well, that’s fine.” She realises the bluntness of her phrasing only when the carriage falls silent, and she adds, “It’s for the city, so.”

“Exactly,” Barry nods. “I know our wedding portrait was passed around the area, but even just holding hands might help sell it.”

“Alright,” Iris nods.  “That makes sense. Shall we do it at the ball tomorrow?”

“I’ll give you some warning,” Barry says, a smile quirking.

“I’m not skittish,” she refutes, but the teasing helps to set her a bit more ease. She’s kissed people before, so there’s no reason to treat this one as anything other than clinical, and professional. And they’ve held hands before plenty of times. It’ll be fine. (If only her clammy hands and jumping pulse would believe that too.)

They arrive at the castle a few moments later – Iris is surprised to see crowds of people lining up outside the gate. “What’s going on?” she asks. “Is it a kingdom holiday today?”

Barry looks at her like she’s being deliberately dense. “They’re here for you, Iris.”

“Oh,” she says, and she looks back out the window, seeing the fascination and intrigue on people’s faces. She hesitantly waves, and is shocked by the immediate response, as people wave and start to cheer. She’s so used to being just another friendly face around the castle, having been exploring the immediate West kingdom since she could walk and figure out how to escape from her maids and tutors. The idea of being some celebrity is mad. An intrusive thought wonders how much they’ll hate her when the divorce comes.

They make it into the castle grounds, and the gate closes behind them. Iris is about to step out when the door is opened for her by a servant. She takes the hand offered to her, and walks down the steps, feeling a little overwhelmed by the attention. Before she can feel too worried, Barry’s quickly by her side, and he takes her hand. Iris knows it’s surely for the public, as they’ve just discussed, but it’s still a source of comfort. She breathes a little easier as they walk towards the main building’s front door.

Henry’s waiting there, a big smile on his face, and he draws her into a warm hug. “I heard this was your idea,” he whispers into her ear, so low she doubts anyone else can hear. “Thank you.”

She squeezes his hands to let him know her acknowledgement.

Then she quickly lets him go so he can hug his son, and the whole seven-hour journey is worth it alone for the way she sees Barry hide his face in his father’s shoulders.

When they let go, Barry immediately reaches for her hand again, and she tightens her fingers between his just for a moment, hoping that express the weird sense of pride and gratefulness she’s feeling. He squeezes back, and she thinks,  _teamwork_.

There’s more people to greet them, and Iris is quickly introduced to everyone from servants to advisors to friends of Barry. She shakes the hands of them all, her smile genuine. There’s not many of the latter category, as Barry predicted, just a guy who introduces himself as Raymond, and a pretty blonde woman, whose smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes as she greets, “So wonderful to finally meet you, Princess; my name’s Lady Spivot.”

"We’re just so happy to have you,” Henry says, after Iris seems to have said hello to half the city. “There’s a ball tonight in your honour - just the locals, don’t worry!” He adds at the trepidation he must read across their faces. “Bella, will you take them to their room?” A redheaded maid steps forward, curtsying again and then leading the way into the castle.

Barry rolls his eyes. “Dad, I know the way to my own chamber.”

Iris starts at the use of the singular nouns. It’s only then that she remembers: everyone here, save for Henry, believes them to be a real couple. Which means they’ll be expected to share a bedchamber, and a bed.

She swallows, and lets Barry guide her into the castle.

The room is in the east wing of the castle, and the maid chatters away the whole journey, asking Barry how he likes the West kingdom and managing to compliment Iris in every other sentence. “Prince West-Allen, what’s the food like in the West kingdom? I heard they serve squid and octopus with every meal! Princess West-Allen, do you eat squid? It must be good for you, your hair is so pretty!”

Barry doesn’t seem at all phased by her enthusiasm, and answers each question gamely for them both, even staying outside the room to chat with her a little longer while Iris walks inside.

She’ll admit: she’s intrigued to see what Barry’s bedchambers looks like, as if it’ll be some wild insight into his mind she hasn’t been able to reach yet. But she probably could’ve guessed at the red colour scheme, and the books littering the room. There’s a desk, with various pieces of parchment and some odd, scientific tools Iris doesn’t recognise. There’s a fireplace, with flames already crackling, and above it is a beautiful oil painting. As Iris walks closer, she realises it’s the Allen family, as they used to be, complete with Nora, Henry, and a far younger Barry. She finds herself smiling in fondness at the recognisable boy, still to grow into his ears and eyebrows, and face splattered with the same freckles she could count today.

“I looked pretty dorky, didn’t I?” She spins at the sounds of his voice, and sees that he’s shut the door without her noticing. He’s smiling ruefully at the painting.

She catches herself before she replies the truth, which is that he looks cute. She just pulls a sympathetic face and says, “I think I looked worse in the portrait I had when I turned eleven. I’d just tried to cut my own hair.”

“Nightmare,” he teases, and she lets out a small laugh.

“So, those were your friends?” she asks. “Patty and Raymond?”

“Yeah,” he says, but he doesn’t sound as fond as Iris would be, talking about her own friends. She thinks back to him admitting he didn’t have many friends in Central City, and she feels a fierce rush of protectiveness towards him that she can’t even attempt to tamper. The unbidden thought sparks into her mind that Barry deserves the world, not just a few friends to value his true worth. “They were tutored with me for alchemy and engineering classes.”

“They seem nice,” she offers, the only real comment she can provide after the brief encounter, turning to look back at him.

“Do you want to rest?” he asks, shifting the topic ungracefully. Before she can answer that no, she’s too keyed up from their arrival, he quickly continues, “It’s just that I was wondering if you might want to go on a tour of the city. It’s market day, so there’s lots to see, and, um, I’d like to show you around.”

She thinks that last bit wasn’t supposed to come out so honest, and she realises he really is hopeful for her to enjoy her time here. So, she smiles, and steps closer to him. “I’d love to,” she says, adding, “On one condition.”

He looks concerned. “What’s that?”

“You’re going to buy me some of that paella I smelt on the way.”

He laughs looking visibly relieved, and holds out his arm crooked at the elbow, for her to take. “Your wish is my command, Princess.”

-

If she thought Central City was a sight to behold from just the carriage window, she’s absolutely captivated actually walking into its heart. There’s so many bright colours and interesting people and amazing sights. The smells can be both amazing and rather awful, as with any settlement, and she’s not very keen on the butcher’s stall. But she’s delighted at the market, with far more exciting products and plants and potions that even come to the West kingdom.

“And what’s this?” She asks for the fifth time, pointing at a fiddly-looking brass contraption on the merchant’s table.

Having lost enthusiasm for her as a customer five minutes ago, the merchant replies, tiredly, “That’s a microscope.”

Iris’ mouth falls open. “I thought they hadn’t been made yet. I thought they were just a theory.”

“They’re still mostly prototypes,” Barry explains, still looking amused at her enthusiasm.

“Still, they look incredible,” she says, reaching out to touch the device.

“No touching!” snaps the merchant, his patience obviously having run out.

She retracts her hand quickly, cheeks flushing. She turns to go to the next stall, already examining its beautiful carpets and rugs on display, walking away from the irritated merchant and his stall. But a moment later, she realises Barry hasn’t followed, and she turns back just in time to see him hand over some coins to the merchant, who then passes over the microscope.

She puts her hands on her hips, though she can’t quite keep the stern expression as he walks over. “You didn’t need to do that,” she says.

He just takes her hand, gently looping his fingers (and she certainly doesn’t take note of how easily they do so) around her wrist to plop the device into her palm. “You’ve got to have a souvenir from Central City,” he replies, lips curled in a warm smile. 

She opens her mouth to argue, but then he uses his other hand to gently press against her fingers, making them curl around the base.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let me give you this.”

So, she smiles, and feels warm, and holds the microscope close. “Thank you, Barry.”

They walk on through the streets. Barry points out places from his childhood, like where his mother first took him to get his own books, or stories from the general town, such as where the Invisible Killer had finally been found, or where a man once got so drunk he carved his own name into a continent-famous sculpture.

“Look,” Barry says, pointing to a teenage boy struggling with three sacks of grain. “That’s Friar Steve’s assistant. The friar makes the most amazing biscuits, but he has to use a particular kind of grain only one merchant in Central City sells.”

Iris watches the boy almost lose the top burlap swaying around the throngs of people. “Shouldn’t we help him? He’s going to be crushed by those sacks in a moment.”

Barry fights a smile. “I tried, once. But he doesn’t even need that many – the Friar only uses two bags. I worked it out, though. He’s trying to impress the candlestick maker’s daughter.” Sure enough, when he crouches down a little to point to their left, a girl of similar age rolls her dark eyes behind her stall. Iris smiles at the sight.

They continue through the streets, and the amounts of people seem to increase. “What’s this?” Iris asks, as they enter the town square. The stalls here are more flamboyant and colourful, with horses tied up by open carriages and children playing on some game stalls. Nearby, three of them start celebrating, having thrown some leather balls through a hoop, and the stall vendor reaches for what she presumes is a prize, a large stitched toy.

“I thought you’d want to see this,” Barry says, and he’s smiling down at her rather than taking in all the bright sights. “The carnival’s visiting - they come every few months.”

Iris grabs his hand in her exuberance, her excitement shining through her face as her cheeks hurt from smiling so wide. “Lead the way.”

They go to the hoop game, first, and Iris finds out while she is gifted in many areas of life, her aim is  _abysmal_. Barry’s isn’t much better, though at least he gets one ball through a hoop. Barry insists on paying for all the stalls they visit, claiming that she’s the guest and ignoring her arguments until she’s forced to let it go. They try all kinds of food, even chocolate-coated crickets on sticks, which are surprisingly delicious. Iris reclaims her honour from the hoop game when they visit a chilli stew vendor: she calmly finishes her portion while Barry goes red-faced and coughs his lungs out, much to the vendor’s amusement.

When he’s finally recovered, and Iris has stopped laughing at his streaming eyes, they go to the next vendor, a fabric hut with curtains veiling the entrance. Iris reads the poster attached to the outside aloud: “’Have your future told with Madam Ingrid – only four pieces of copper.’”

She turns to Barry, about to suggest they just move onto the next stall, when they hear a woman’s voice call, “Come in!”

There’s no way they could have been seen through the thick fabric, and Barry and Iris share a look.

Barry shrugs, and strides forward - but the voice says sharply, “Ladies first.”

He quickly takes a step back, and raises his eyebrows as if to say, ‘In you go then.’

Iris rolls her eyes and lifts the veil to walk inside. The air is thick with perfumed incense, and the lighting is muted enough that her vision takes a second to adjust. When it does, she appraises the small table, with a large flat cushion in front of it, and a woman sat behind it. She’s clearly an older woman, with lots of jewellery and grey hair silky straight.

“Please, sit.” The woman commands gesturing with long-nailed fingers to the cushion. “Put four coppers onto the table.”

Iris bites her tongue from revealing her scepticism, and obediently sits, placing the microscope down by her side and fishing in her purse to follow the second of the woman’s instructions. Presumably, this is Madame Ingrid.

Madame Ingrid takes a moment to react, her eyes closed, which Iris can’t help must make things extra difficult. “Give me your hand,” she then says, and holds out her own palm expectantly.

Iris gently places her fingers in the woman’s hand, and then inhales sharply as Madame yanks at it to hold it closer to her. With her spare hand, Madame Ingrid reaches behind her, and then sprinkles a pinch of something grainy on Iris’s palm. She rubs the strange substance into Iris’s palm, and Iris just tries to stem her own grimace.

Madame Ingrid tilts her chin back, still holding Iris’s hand - presumably this is part of the rehearsed show that Iris just paid four coins for. She just hopes this doesn’t take too long, and that Barry won’t wander off - she could far too easily lose him in the maze of stalls.

Startlingly Iris out of her own thoughts, Madame Ingrid says, matter-of-factly, “You’re in love, aren’t you?”

Eddie’s face swims into Iris’s mind, and she allows herself a soft smile.

“Yes,” Madame Ingrid says, obviously having seen Iris’s reaction, though her eyes remain closed. “I see a handsome man.”

Of course - obviously Eddie is handsome, and well-known for it. But, “You see him in my future?”

She nods, and adds, “He’s regal, isn’t he? And charismatic.”

Iris thinks of all the times Eddie had bent at the knee to kiss her hand, all the times he had spoken so cleverly to her father. She nods again, just wanting Madame Ingrid to start actually telling the future rather than describing someone she already knows. She has to admit, she’s impressed, even if this is just a trick.

Madame Ingrid hums a little. “He makes you laugh,”

Iris feels a flash of disagreement, that she can’t necessarily think of an instance to agree with that - but she quashes down the disloyal thought. “Yes,” she says, because she probably just can’t remember when Eddie last made her laugh, that’s all. It’s been over a month since she’s even seen him, it’s no wonder her memory is a little stale.

Madame Ingrid’s head bobs in thought. She twists Iris’s hand in her own, and digs her thumb in between the bones in Iris’s hand just shy of painfully. “Yes, you have a good future with him. Not without its hurdles, mind you. But the greatest journeys must have their mountains to climb, their swords to cross, their apologies to make.”

A bit of a vague answer, but Iris supposes that’s easiest to use for everyone who comes into the hut. And she can’t help the small thrill of excitement she gets at the idea of Eddie and her sharing a future, especially a good one, when lately it seems further and further away from such a life. “What else?” she asks, eager despite herself.

Madame Ingrid twists her lips, tilting her face skywards. She holds out the hand not clutching Iris’ hand, strangely hesitant before finding Iris’ forehead and pressing two fingertips against the skin.

“You will have two children,” she declares. “They’ll have your hair, and your smile.”

Iris finds her lips curving without her intention.

“But they’ll have his green eyes.”

Instantly, Iris rips her hand out of the woman’s hold. “Eddie has blue eyes,” she says sharply, distinctly aware she’s probably overreacting to the guesswork of a phony.

“Who is Eddie?” The woman’s brow creases, turned back in Iris’s direction though her eyes still remain closed.

Iris stands, feeling inexplicably irritated. “The man my heart actually belongs to. Which you’d know if you were a  _real_  fortune-teller.” She lets out a cross huff, grabbing her microscope. “You obviously just saw who I walked here with, somehow. That’s where you got that rubbish about green eyes.”

“You came here with someone else?” Madame Ingrid is still playing dumb, still with her eyes closed, still continuing the frustrating gimmick.

Rolling her eyes, Iris says, “You’ve already got your money, you don’t need to pretend. You must have seen me with Barry.”

“My dear, I can see your future, but I am afraid,” Madame Ingrid says, finally opening her eyes to reveal clouded over pupils and an unfocused gaze. “That I cannot see much else.”

Iris’s mouth falls open. “But-”

“The future is often unexpected,” Madame Ingrid says, and that’s about Iris’s limit for unexplainable-mystical-shit for today. “You should not fight so hard against it.”

“I- Thank you,” she says stiffly, crouching quickly down to place a few more coins on the table as an apology for her rudeness. “I’ll- um, I’m going to go.”

Madame Ingrid doesn’t look offended - presumably, she must be used to freaking out her customers. Iris steals back outside, squinting against the change of light as she pushes apart the curtains.

“How was she?” Barry asks, and Iris jumps a little at the sound of his voice, lost in her own thoughts.

She forces herself not to examine his eyes, wondering if maybe they could be passed off as hazel, or even brown. “Full of horseshit,” she says, already reaching to drag him physically away if she needs to. “Come on, let’s try the ice cream vendor over there.”

-

Not for the first time this trip, Iris wishes Linda had come along.

She and Barry had gotten back to the castle a few hours ago, and now it was time to get ready for this evening’s ball. But she’s struggling with the clasps of her dress, a long scarlet piece chosen deliberately to match the Allen house colours. She lets a huff, arms aching as she twists and contorts her body trying to reach. She’s about to give up and go get some random servant to help her when there comes a knock at the door.

Relieved and expecting Barry, who’d left half an hour ago to give her some privacy, she calls, “Come in! I’m decent.”

But blonde rather than chestnut hair pokes around the door.

“Oh- Lady Spivot!” Iris says in surprise. She realises her mostly bare back is facing Patty, and she hastily turns away from the mirror.

“Princess West-Allen,” Patty greets, curtsying as she walks into the room.

“Please, call me Iris,” she smiles. “Any friend of Barry is a friend of mine.”

“Alright, Iris. But only if you call me Patty.” Patty smiles, kind and pretty. “I just came to see how you were doing – Barry said he left you to get ready by yourself, but I’m not sure he knows how difficult these dresses can be.”

Iris lets out a laugh. “Oh, thank goodness. I was just about to go find a maid – could you maybe help me with these ties?”

Patty nods, smiling, and walks gracefully forward to start fastening from the bottom of Iris’s spine. “So,” she asks, as she pulls at the intricate ribbons. “How are you finding our City?”

“I  _love_  it,” Iris says emphatically, barely containing her enthusiasm. “It’s the first time I’ve really left the West kingdom since I was young. And I’d heard some stories about it, and obviously I’ve studied it in my geography tuitions. But none of that compares to how vibrant it is – there’s so much going on. I don’t think one could ever explore all the things it has to offer.”

“Maybe if you’d chosen to stay here after your wedding, you’d get more time to explore,” Patty says delicately. It’s a tease, surely, but Iris can’t help but notice the undercurrent of seriousness to it. Of course, she thinks, guiltily, Barry’s friends missed him.

“I know, it is a shame,” she says, apologetic in her tone if not her words. “It’s just how it worked out, really, what with the territories and the kingdoms being what they are.”

Patty makes a non-committal noise that could be agreement or not.

Iris decides not to press it, saying instead, “We went to the market today. It’s incredible, honestly, some of the inventions are just amazing.”

Patty laughs, moving up to the ribbons just below Iris’ shoulder blades. “Yes, I see you even bought a souvenir.” She nods her chin to the microscope, sitting proud on display on the dresser.

Iris smiles at the memory. “Yes – Barry bought me that.”

Patty’s finger twitch almost imperceptibly on Iris’s skin. “That’s nice,” she says, but Iris can’t shake the fact that she doesn’t actually think so. She ties the final ribbon, just at the nape of Iris’s neck, and steps back, saying, “All done.”

“Thank you so much, Patty,” Iris says, spinning round to face the other woman, the full skirt of her dress lifting a little with the movement.

“It’s no bother at all.” Patty seems to hesitate, and is just opening her mouth to to say something when a knock comes from the door. Iris calls her permission and it opens to reveal Barry, dressed in his own red outfit and handsome for it. He hasn’t seen the dress yet, and Iris feels his eyes crawl up her. Her lips curve and she teases, “What do you think? I’m not really sure this is my colour.”

He clears his threat. “You look gorgeous.” She blushes a little at the sincerity in his tone, and the moment is only broken when his eyes flitter and widen a little at noticing Patty standing to the side. “Patty! I’d wondered where you’d gotten to.”

“I was just coming to help Iris here with her dress,” Patty smiles as she takes a step forward, away from Iris. “You look good - I haven’t seen you in that suit since last year’s winter solstice celebration.”

Barry laughs at the memory, apparently. “Yes, do you remember the-”

“-with the spilt casserole!” Patty finishes, giggling at the inside joke. Iris fixes a small smile on her face, ignoring the feeling of exclusion. She’s glad Barry has friends - and she’s sure she and Wally have laughed about things Barry wasn’t privy to. It’s fine.

Still grinning, Barry turns back to Iris. “Are you ready to go down? Father wants us there to introduce guests - he says it’s only four years until we’ll be officially hosting, after all.”

Iris noticed, out of the corner of her eye, Patty stiffen at something Barry’s said. But perhaps it’s her imagination - Patty’s expression is pleasant enough as she says, “I’d better be off, then. Raymond’s probably waiting.”

As she closes the door behind her, Iris asks, “Oh - is she being courted by Raymond, then?”

Barry frowns. “No, they’re just friends. They just usually go to these functions together because they don’t seem to have much interest in dating anyone else.”

That fact doesn’t settle Iris’s abrupt tension twisting her stomach tight. But she pushes it away to take Barry’s offered arm, curling close to him. She’s excited to meet all the different people, and maybe talk to old friends. After all, Central City is a neighbouring territory to the West Kingdom - she and Barry had been in overlapping social circles growing up.

Sure enough, as the guests start arriving, Iris recognises an awful lot of them. The Queens are one of the earliest ones to come, followed by the Lances and then Lord Palmer and his wife. Soon enough the ballroom is filled with people, and Iris has been introduced as “My wife, Princess Iris West-Allen,” by Barry over what seems like a hundred times.

She leans her head on Barry’s shoulder as the main doors shut again, and the queue of people waiting to enter the ballroom has dissipated. She lets out a small groan. “When we host balls, we’re only inviting ten people.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, smiling down at her. “Only ten?”

“Maybe fifteen,” she allows. He laughs, eyes creasing and dimples showing.

“Well, we probably need to go socialise with the guests we have now,” he says, nodding to the growing crowd on the dance floor. “You know, to pick out the chosen fifteen.”

“You go ahead,” she says.  “I’ll catch up with you - I want to speak with Lord Queen.”

She finds the blonde man easily, accompanied by a petite blonde Iris only recognises from the last time she’d shown up with Oliver. He bows and she curtsies - Starling Kingdom is a smaller territory than the West area, but they are both still heirs to thrones, and are therefore of the same social status. “Lovely to see you again,” Oliver says, the only sign on sincerity in his eyes, the rest of his features are as impassive as ever.

“And you,” she replies.

“May I introduce you to Miss Felicity Smoak,” he says, one hand slipping to rest on the blonde woman’s back, “She’s the castle’s new technical advisor.”

Iris thinks that she’s never felt the need to bring their technical advisor to a ball, nor put her hands on him. But she keeps those thoughts to herself, and reaches out to shake Felicity’s hand.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says. “Welcome to the Allen kingdom.”

“You too!” Felicity enthuses, then she stops herself. “I mean, it’s a pleasure to meet you too, not that I was also welcoming you to the Allen kingdom.”

“Right,” Iris says, hiding her smile at both Felicity’s ramblings and Oliver’s pained expression. “Anyway, I wanted to ask - I know Barry sent you a letter, but have you heard much from Duke Merlyn?”

Oliver’s jaw tenses. “He told us his point of view of his time in the West Kingdom, yes. I wanted to apologise to you personally for his behaviour, Princess. He was specifically forbidden by my mother from attending tonight’s festivities.”

Iris wants to make some attempt at protesting - Duke Merlyn may have been awful, but he was still part of the nobility, and social protocol makes such a punishment on her behalf uncomfortable. But she can’t bring herself to even pretend, and she nods, says, “I can’t say I’m disappointed. My priorities are my people.”

“As they should be,” Oliver nods, and they share a look over their responsibilities, one that makes Iris think the Queen dynasty will be a promising ally to have. Certainly, Barry’s connections to them will be an aid in growing the diplomatic relationship.

They walk away after a few more pleasantries exchanged, but Iris doesn’t watch them go, her attention suddenly caught by the oil painting behind them.

It’s of Barry, whose shadow she thinks she could recognise by this point. It must be his coming-of-age portrait - the painted Barry is similar to the man she knows, but his head hasn’t quite grown to match his ears, and his frame hasn’t quite bulked to fill his height. She’d thought he was gangly now, but teenage Barry must have positively been a bean pole. His freckles are prominent, painted deliberately with umber oils on his pale skin, and his green eyes sparkle.

But what really catches her notice, apart from the fixed gaze of her younger husband, is the colours used in the paining. Most royal portraits use the hues of the family colour, just as Iris and Wally’s coming-of-age portraits have actual flecks of gold leaves for highlights. But more than just a scarlet backdrop, Iris notices the shadows across the room, the dim light to the painting and the warm tinge. She notices the violet streaks, the umber orange used in Barry’s hair.

It reminds her of a sunset.

“You two are good together.” She startles at the voice, pulled from her own thoughts, as Henry steps gracefully into the space next to her. She glances at him, but he’s looking straight ahead at the painting that was consuming her own attention.

“Oh,” she says, realising he’s waiting for her to reply. “Well, yes, I think we work well together.”

“I always told Joe that, even as you two were growing up.” Henry smiles, and suddenly she gets the idea that he isn’t talking about them platonically working together.

She licks her lips nervously, and quickly glances around to check she won’t be overheard as she says, in a low voice, “You know we still aren’t… we’re still only friends.”

Henry only makes a non-committal noise at that, one sure she’s not sure how much to contest.

Then she frowns. “Wait, you talked to my father about it?”

Henry’s brows crease, and he turns more fully towards her. “You didn’t know? I thought your father would have told you - I’ve always been very open with Barry about what I knew about you. Henry and I corresponded all through your youths.”

Iris shakes her head, saying faintly, “He never even mentioned it. I always- the arranged marriage was always just a joke at home. Just, something on paper.”

She wonders how, or if, it would have changed things had she thought of Barry as a real person. If she had ever considered the arranged marriage a real one. If she had ever been able to write to Barry herself.

“I spent most of Barry’s childhood mentioning you,” Henry continues, and the statement makes Iris uncomfortable, as one usually is when finding out they’ve been talked about without their knowledge for almost two decades. “I wonder if that’s why-” but he stops himself before finishing the thought, looking almost guilty at saying even that much.

“Why what?” she asks, because something unspoken seems too important to let go unsaid.

But then Barry himself appears, and Henry’s expression shifts deliberately to one-dimensional pleasure, as if he hadn’t been contemplative and mysterious a moment ago.

“Dad?” Barry asks, teasing humour tinging his words. “What are you saying that’s making Iris frown like that?”

“I’m not frowning,” Iris defends automatically.

Barry’s smile only widens, and he tilts his head to tease, “Oh? Your eyebrows always crinkle like that, then?”

She realises he’s right as she deliberately straightens her brow into a more neutral expression, and he grins when he notices. In reply, she sticks out her tongue, and then quickly draws it back when she realises their company.

Henry shakes his head, smiling either despite Iris’s juvenile display or because of it. “I was just talking to Iris about her father.”

“Joe?”

“The one and only,” Henry replies, winking at Iris when she laughs. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go steal some of those prawn snacks before my Advisor of Technology makes her way through all of them.”

With that, he wanders away, leaving Barry and Iris relatively alone - as much as they can be in a ballroom full of people.

He leans closer to her to whisper in her ear, and at first she’s so focused on the air brushing over the shell of her ear that she processes a beat too late him saying, “Kiss me.”

She manages to control the shock from distorting her expression. He’s right, it would be a perfect time. They’re in a public setting, but not directly talking to anyone, so it wouldn’t be too overt. She steels herself, nervous and unable to reason why, and turns her head to look up at him.

And maybe she should’ve closed her eyes, because he’s a better actor than she thought. His eyes are soft, almost liquid, and there’s just enough of a trace of a smile dancing on his lips that it seems natural. His pupils are blown despite the relatively bright lighting, the multitude of candles spread around the room. Her mouth parts almost unintentionally, and his gaze flickers to it. Before she can overthink it any more, he leans down, and presses his lips to hers.

It’s a soft, close-lipped kiss, just a few seconds long, but it lights Iris up from her toes to the top of her head, and her eyes close automatically. She lets herself fall into the movement of his warm lips.

She vaguely hears people clapping, laughing at the newly-weds, but the noise of the hall only comes rushing back into high definition as he pulls away. His hand had reached to cup her cheek without her even noticing, and it falls away, only just brushing against the top of her breast in its trajectory.

Barry clears his throat, his cheeks tinging red as someone even whistles. She just hopes its not Henry. She smiles, remembering the audience, and hides her face in his shoulder; they’ll assume it’s her embarrassment over being caught, not her embarrassment at her own damned reaction. She’s just not been kissed in a while, and Barry clearly has a talent for it, that’s all.

His other hand is still entwined with hers, and she uses it as an anchor as they turn to face the next group of well-wishers, a mayor of a nearby town and his husband. She couldn’t tell anyone who would ask what they talk about – she just manages to keep her end of the conversation, trying to ignore how oversensitive her lips feel.

The mayor eventually stops talking animatedly about the new bridge developments they’ve been designing, which Iris would usually at least pretend to take an interest in, and smiles softly at them. “You two are very sweet together, I might add.”

“Thank you,” Barry says, perfectly replicating an adoring look directed down at Iris. She does her part by using her other hand to clutch Barry’s arm, just above the elbow, and curling into him.

“Still early days,” the mayor’s husband jokes, and the mayor pulls a scandalised expression. “Oh, I’m only teasing!” he winks.

“Well, we’re certainly been fine so far,” Iris says politely, deferring the conversation before the mayor gets even more embarrassed.

The music of the ballroom abruptly changes to a faster rhythm, a tune Iris hasn’t ever heard in the West kingdom. She watches as most of the people already dancing in the centre of the room perk up in recognition. It must be a popular song in Central City, but as people start to move into a specific formation, she realises she won’t know any of the moves.

Before she can tell Barry she’ll go to sit at one of the tables to wait the music out, not wanting to embarrass herself, Barry’s attention is grabbed by a chirping voice, “Barry! Come dance, we used to love this song.” It’s Patty, bounding over with bright eyes only for Barry.

Iris takes the cue and steps back, pasting a smile on her face. This is what she wanted after all, to not dance to this song, and so when Barry looks to her as if asking for permission, she says, “You two have fun. I think I’d just trip over myself anyway.”

Barry doesn’t exactly look convinced, but he still smiles at Patty as they join the dance. Iris can’t seem to look away as they begin twirling and neatly stepping with the rest of the dancing people, the movements well practised. She wrenches her gaze away, trying to quench the ridiculous feeling of being left out.

But before she can meander to the outskirts of the room and hide there until it’s time for the feast, she’s interrupted by an outstretched hand. “Princess West-Allen,” Raymond offers with kind blue eyes and a gentle uptick of a smile. “Can I have this dance?”

She tries to contain her grimace. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know this one. I’d embarrass you terribly.”

“I’ll teach you,” he replies, his hand refusing to budge.

“Then you’ll end up embarrassing both of us,” she counters, though she’s oddly charmed by his persistence. And she would like to get to know any friend of Barry’s better.

“We’ll just stay here, then,” he says. “Come on, you can’t stay at Central City and  _not_  learn our version of a waltz.”

“ _That’s_  what this is?” Iris says, finally conceding and taking Raymond’s hand.

He laughs at her disbelief, pulling her other hand to rest at his elbow. “Us Central City folk do tend to over complicate things, it’s true. The steps are the same as a normal waltz, it’s just the hand movements that look so tricky. Here, follow me.” Sure enough, within a few seconds Iris falls into the waltz rhythm, ears picking up the beat now she knows what to listen for. Once he’s sure she’s gotten that part understood, he instructs, “Now, after every verse, we spin. Usually you’d switch partners, but I’m afraid our options are limited.” They both look to their left to see a noble drunk and snoring, somehow propped up standing against the wall. They share a conspiratory chuckle at the sight of him.

“Don’t you have someone else who’d want to dance with you?” Iris asks as they spin, leaving her with her back to the rest of the room and him facing it.

A flash of something crosses his eyes, but it’s gone too soon for her to make sense of it. “Not really,” he says. His tone stays light, though, as he asks, “Why, do you want to get rid of me so quickly? Before I’ve even told you embarrassing stories about Barry?”

Iris laughs. “No, no, definitely not.”

“Good, because you really should hear about the time he tried to literally bottle lightning just to prove a point to our alchemy professor.”

Grinning at the image, she asks, “You’ve known him a long time, then?”

He twists his lips as if she’s hit a sore spot, though she can’t imagine how. “Only a few years.” At her waiting expression, he admits, “I’ve only been at Central City for a few years. Or at least, from what I know.”

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

He guides her hands in a twisting movement on the beat of the music, and then says, “I lost my memory of most of my adulthood. I found myself in Central City after being attacked, though I can’t remember it. The Allens were kind enough to take me in, recognising from the cuff I wore that I was of noble heritage.”

Iris’ feels her face soften. "Oh, Raymond, I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure if there’s much to be sorry for, Princess. I’ve been very fortunate - maybe I should be grateful I don’t remember the incident. And Barry has been very good to me.”

Iris makes a non-committal noise, fighting the urge to look behind her at all the other people dancing. An unbidden image strikes into her mind, one of a pretty couple laughing and dancing together, chestnut hair and blonde together.

“Don’t worry about him,” Raymond says quietly to only her ears, as if reading her thoughts. “He’s been looking at you since we started dancing, anyway.”

“I wasn’t-“ she tries to deny, but falls flat. She asks, giving up the pretence of subtlety, “Are he and Patty close friends?”

He shrugs. “They’ve been good friends for all the time I’ve known them. I’m sure she’s just missed him after these weeks apart.”

Iris forces her thoughts away from the matter, and asks Raymond, “So, tell me about some more of these embarrassing stories.”

But before he can, the music halts just long enough for a servant to announce, “Please find your seats; food is about to be served.”

As much as Iris would like to sit next to Raymond and hear more from him, her place along the horse-shoe shaped banquet table is next to Barry, who sits to the right of Henry’s seat. But she’s the first to sit, accepting a goblet of fruity smelling wine while the Allen men make their way to their chairs.

Barry sits next to her, and she remembers, like a jolt, a similar occasion; their wedding banquet. They had held hands for comfort. But now, Barry is too busy laughing and talking to his father, and the only thing Iris’s fingers tighten around this time is her wine goblet.

As the food is piled high in front of them and their guests, Henry stands, holding his glass high. Iris realises she had drunk hers quickly, and quickly gestures for a servant to refill it quickly.

“Friends, I assure you our cooks have made a wonderful meal, and I am as hesitant as you are to let the food grow cold. So, this will be brief,” Henry says, to a smattering of chuckles. Indeed, Iris is eyeing up a vegetable stew that looks delicious. “But I want to say how happy I am to welcome my son and his wonderful wife to our city for their honeymoon.”

That grabs her attention, and she focuses her gaze on Henry so as not to blush at the applause that fills the room. She can sense Barry’s eyes on her, but she knows looking at him will break her carefully neutral expression.

Henry continues. “It was twenty one years ago when I met with King Joseph West to discuss the future of our kingdoms. As I’m sure many of you know, Central City was a newly formed territory, and our predecessors were hardly friends.” That’s an understatement - Central City had broken away from the now splintered Savitar Empire, who had been constantly instigating war with the West Kingdom and its other neighbours. “We needed a symbol of unity. My boy had just reached his first year, and Queen Francine had just given birth to their first child, a beautiful, healthy daughter.”

He looks to Iris now, and the smile on his face is fond and familial and genuine.

“So we signed an betrothal agreement. An arranged marriage that we would not have dared presume to come true. But here I stand today, two decades on from signing the most important document I ever have. Barry and Iris are our legacy, and I am so glad to congratulate them as they begin to create their own, together.” He raises his glass a little higher, directing his gaze back over their guests. “Now please, join me in toasting the happy couple.”

Iris can’t quite believe it as, almost wholly together, every single one of their guests stands to raise their glasses and echo the congratulations. She looks to Barry, but he seems just as awestruck as she does – standing ovations are a big thing in Central City as well, apparently. Henry sits after a moment, and the guests follow suit, eagerly digging into their food now the formalities are over.

Iris leans forward to speak around Barry and say, “That was a beautiful speech, Henry.”

He smiles at her, eyes shining a little, and says, “I meant every word, Iris.”

And she doesn’t know what to make of that, how he seems so genuinely happy with their union despite her having made clear the realities of it less than an hour ago. So, she smiles, leans back, and reaches for her food – and her drink.

The vegetable stew is delicious, as she predicted, and she almost lets out a moan at the taste of the luxuriously soft bread dipped into it. She startles as Barry whispers, close to her ear, “It’s the bread from the Friar. Do you remember, from town?”

She smiles despite herself, and says, “Remind me to send a letter of thanks to him, and his assistant. That grain is  _so_  worth it, my goodness.” Barry chuckles, and turns back to his food.

But Iris’s chin rises as she sense eyes on her. Sure enough, she catches on a pair of steely blue ones staring right at her. Patty. Her expression is unmistakeable, having obviously just caught Barry whispering warmly into Iris’ ear; one of pure anger.

Iris wrenches her gaze away as certain pieces slot perfectly into place. She wasn’t imagining things; Patty does have feelings for Barry. And if that’s true, then she has every reason to dislike Iris. From Patty’s point of view, Barry just went to a birthday party and came back a month later married to a stranger. If she were in Patty’s position, Iris would hate herself too.

Henry’s words ring in her mind as she stirs her stew, appetite suddenly vanished. She thinks about what that single piece of paper, signed twenty years ago, has led to. She can’t be sure on the matter, but she thinks that Barry and Patty would make a wonderful couple. Maybe they were close to that; maybe they were already there.

Her thoughts are sour, such a change from how happy she had been just a few hours ago, but she doesn’t know how to lift them from the guilt she feels at preventing Patty and Barry’s happy ever after. At how she has created another woman’s hatred, how leadership suddenly has a wider cost than before.

She holds up her hand for another refill of her goblet.

-

It’s a few hours later before Barry finally suggests they go to their chamber, most of the guests having already left. She’s merry from the wine served at dinner, and actually manages to trip over her skirt in the corridor as they leave. “Whoops,” she says, and then giggles at herself.

“Alright, come on, you drunkard,” Barry says, and it must be her addled brain that makes it sound so fond. He curls an arm around her to steady her, but the gesture also serves to pull her close, lined up along his torso.

“Shut up,” she says, but, horribly, she turns with the momentum of looking at him, and ends up twisted into him, face pressed against his throat. “I’m fine,” she insists against his skin.

“Sure you are,” Barry replies, perfectly agreeably. “Come on, in we go.” He maneuvers them into the bedchambers. Over his shoulder, she sees two servants walk past, sharing a knowing look at the sight of them. Iris will be embarrassed about that in the morning, probably.

She manages to pull herself away once the door shuts, though it’s an effort, because apparently Barry’s chest is really quite comfortable. She focuses on her balance, and is disproportionately pleased that she doesn’t sway or stagger.

“Tonight was fun,” she says.

“It was,” he agrees, unbuttoning his jacket and placing it over the near table. The fire’s on, and she revels in the warmth of it for a moment. She’s hasn’t been tipsy like this since the birthday before last, when she and Wally stole some botanical gin from their father’s selection and took turns swigging from the bottle, pulling faces at the sharp slide of it down their throats.

“You like being home, don’t you?” she wonders aloud, still staring at the fire.

“I like visiting here, yes,” he replies, sounding a little closer. She thinks it must be nice to cosy up with someone you love in front of a fire like this, feeling hazy and happy like this. Eddie’s face pops into her mind, and she wonders what it be like to have him here, whether he’d laugh at her silliness or he’d be annoyed.

“And you like Patty, don’t you?” she asks, before even really realising she’s going to say it. She fights the urge to wince at her lack of tact.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment or two, and Iris wonders whether she really has crossed an unspoken boundary. He finally speaks, sounding a little confused, “What do you mean?”

“I think she likes you,” Iris says, rather than answering his question.

“No she doesn’t,” he dismisses, and she has to turn at that with an incredulous expression.

“Even you can’t be that obtuse,” she refutes.

“She doesn’t,” he insists.

“She hates me, Barry,” Iris says, holding her arms out to emphasise her point.

“What? Why? Did she say something?” he says, and it’s sweet how alarmed he looks. Unless, she supposes, he’s alarmed on Patty’s behalf, that she might have given away their game.

Iris twirls a hand half-heartedly. “She didn’t have to. She wasn’t explicit, don’t worry. But the only reason she could hate me that much is if she loves you.”

“I- she doesn’t,” Barry struggles, but even he sounds unsure. Finally he settles on, “I’m sorry if she was rude to you.”

“It’s fine, she wasn’t. And it makes sense,” she dismisses.

“It does?” He says, slowly, speculatively. 

“Of course.” And her eyes are too unfocused to notice the way his face tenses, searching her like she’s holding an answer to an important problem. “If someone married Eddie - I’d be heartbroken.”

“Right.” His tone sounds final, almost irritated. “Eddie. Right.”

She reaches up to run a hand through her hair, and then trails it down, dragging it down her bottom lip to test its numbness. She hears a small, muted groan from Barry, but she can’t imagine why.

“Come on,” he says, an edge to his tone. “Let’s go to bed.”

She nods. “Yes. To our bed.”

He doesn’t respond to that, even though the speculative look in his eyes makes Iris think he wants to. “Do you need help with your dress?” he asks.

She shrugs, and then attempts to twist her arms back to fiddle with the clasps - but they’re difficult even when she’s stone cold sober, and she gives up within a few moments with a grimace.

Barry rolls his eyes, with a huff of laughter at her antics. But he still obediently comes closer as she turns her back, and twists her hair to fall in front of her shoulder. His fingers are feather-light on her skin as he slowly works his way down her spine, and she’s reminded like a flash of their first night as a married couple. She still doesn’t regret any of it, though it’s nights like these when she wishes she had understood a little more of what she was getting into.

She’s not wearing anything underneath her dress this time, though, and his hands are brushing against her bare skin. She realises she’s holding her breath, and she tries to exhale as discreetly as possible. She holds the front of her bodice so when the clasps are all undone, the dress doesn’t fall to the floor. He must realise that, as she feels him step back and say, quietly, “I’ll turn around.”

Her night dress is waiting on the bed, laid out neatly, and she quickly reaches for it as her dress falls away. She’s wearing underwear, but its more than that, more than the skin on show, something more vulnerable in the quiet of the night, that she wants to cover up. As soon as she’s decent, the silk night dress slipped over her, she says, “It’s fine. I’ll turn as well for you.” She spins to face the wall, as promised, trying her best to ignore the sounds of rustling fabric and his gentle breathing. She’s uncomfortable with the fire now, adding a flickering ambience to the room.

She moves towards the bed and climbs in, curling up on her side. Within a few moments, she feels the bed dip a little as Barry slides in as well.

She’s closing her eyes, wondering how she’s going to manage to get to sleep, when he breathes, “Iris.”

She twists to face him, and his eyes are unreadable, pupils blown wide in the dim light. Her pulse feels heavy with everything he might say.

He licks his lips, the pass of his tongue over his bottom lip, before he finally says, “Thank you. For arranging all this.”

“It’s the least I could do,” she replies, simply, because it’s the truth.

His hand moves, and she holds her breath as it goes for her cheek, so gently, and then it falls back down. He twists his lips, and says, “Good night, Iris.”

“Night, Barry,” she breathes, even as he rolls away onto his other side.

-

She wakes up in the night at seemingly nothing. She’s always been able to sleep straight through until morning, so the lack of light surprises her as her eyes blink awake. She sits up, trying to work out why she’s woken. It’s then that she notices she’s in the bed alone.

Following her instinct, too awake now to just go back to sleep and too curled in the remnants of sleep to leave matters alone, she climbs out and grabs for the nearest coat or jacket for extra modesty and warmth. She reaches for the door and steps out into the hallway, wishing, as soon as her bare feet touch the cold stone she’d thought to put on some slippers.

She wonders where he could’ve gone, but it turns out she doesn’t have to wonder for long. As she turns into the hallway, she sees him down to the right, a yard or so away, talking to someone else.

Someone female, and pretty, and blonde.

She can’t hear what they’re whispering about, but it seems intense. She thinks Patty looks cross, but she hardly knows her well enough to know her expressions so well. Barry looks appeasing, his back to the wall.

Oh, but maybe she was right about Patty’s mood, considering she jabs Barry in the chest, and her voice rises, just enough for Iris to make out, “-don’t understand _why_?”

He reaches out and gently holds her wrist, pulling her hand away from her chest, placating her. Iris feels a twinge of something dark in her stomach at the idea of Patty seeing Barry like this, in an undershirt and loose breeches. She must have knocked on their bedroom door, or they must have pre-arranged to meet. She doesn’t understand why the latter thought especially makes her dislike of Patty grow.

They say something else, and Patty’s glower doesn’t seem to lessen at all. Then her eyes flicker sideways, and Iris freezes as she looks in Iris’s direction. She must see her – there’s nothing for Iris to hide behind. (And anyway, why shouldn’t she look for her husband, she thinks in stubborn defence.)

But Patty only turns back to Barry, as he says something else to her. And then Iris watches, as Patty’s face adopts one of determination, and her hands place themselves flat on Barry’s chest. Iris watches as Patty leans in, and kisses Barry.

Iris watches as Barry kisses her back.

Iris moves in the next second, twirling back around and closing the door behind her, not bothering to slow its movement or soften the sound of it banging shut. She throws off the jacket, only now realising it is Barry’s. No wonder Patty felt the need to prove her mark, if she saw Iris wearing the jacket over not much else. But that certainly doesn’t explain the white-hot fury settling in Iris’s gut and unfurling in her mind.

She paces, unsure of what to do with herself, how to calm herself. But she doesn’t have to, since the door re-opens barely a few minutes later, and Barry walks in.

Iris can’t stop herself from saying, snidely, “What? You didn’t bring Patty in with you? I’m sure I could put the pillow over my ears.”

“So you saw,” he says, sounding defeated.

“As did, I imagine, most of the bloody castle,” Iris snips, just in case her disdain was too subtle.

His jaw tightens. “What does that mean?”

“That you lied to me about Patty!” She snaps. “I could understand the need for secrecy, but then you kiss her out in the corridor for everybody to see!”

“I didn’t lie,” he retorts hotly.

“Really?” Her lip curls meanly. Some distant part of her is aware that she should drop this, that she’s making this into a bigger deal than it actually is. “Tell me, are you still confused about whether she likes you? Or was the tongue down your throat not enough of a clue?”

“I didn’t know before then, obviously!” he exclaims.

She gestures angrily, flicking her hand. “Fine. Whatever. I don’t care when you knew. But if you’re going to have a secret lover, you could at least put a bit more effort into the  _secret_  part of it.”

“Right,” he says, eyes mean. “Like you and Sir Thawne?”

Her cheeks flush. “That’s not the same.”

“You’re still writing him letters, aren’t you?” Barry counters, walking forwards like a predator. “I don’t give you grief about it, do I?”

She doesn’t mention that she hasn’t written Eddie a letter since last week, that she hadn’t even thought to while she was here. Instead she puts her hands on her hips, refusing to lose this argument, and her voice almost rises to a shout as she exclaims, “That’s different!”

“How?”

“Because I’m  _discreet_.” She says, coldly. “And I love him.”

Barry looks a little like she slapped him.

But she doesn’t stop there. “And I gave that up for this marriage. I gave that up for our kingdoms!”

He doesn’t respond – his eyes are unreadable. Finally, he says, at a normal pitch, “I didn’t realise Patty was going to kiss me. I went to see her to know why she was upset.”

“Well. Now you know,” Iris says, still reeling a little from the abrupt shift in conversation tone.

He continues, voice carefully neutral, “I don’t want her as my lover. I’m committed to this marriage as well, Iris.”

“Oh,” she says, after a beat.

“Yeah.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, looking very tired. “I’m going for a walk. Don’t wait up.”

She bites back the mean comment rising like bile from her throat, something about whether he’s off to meet Patty in a murky inn. Instead, she says, quietly, “Alright.”

He watches her, as if searching, waiting for her to say something else. When nothing else comes, he grabs his jacket from the chair – the same one she was wearing a few moments ago – and leaves.

As the door shuts behind him, Iris feels herself visibly deflate. She rubs a hand over her face, and goes back to the bed, climbing under the covers and doubting very much she’ll get any sleep.

 


	7. Chapter 7

In the morning, she wakes up, and quickly realises Barry must have returned in the night after she fell asleep.

She knows this, because, once again, they’ve found themselves entwined and curled together from their calves to their chests. She’s on top of Barry, and still caught in the clutches of sleep she finds herself tracing an invisible pattern on his bare skin with her fingertip, hazy and warm in the early morning. She hears Barry snuffle awake, and she retracts her hand, rolling away. His arm falls lax, letting her go.

They dress in tense and palatable silence.

Henry waits for them at the breakfast table, and cheerily asks them how they slept. Iris doesn’t detect any sarcasm, especially since in the light of morning she’s realising how far their shouting could’ve spread, but she blushes a little regardless.

It’s only as she sits, and Henry is contemplating her with a small smirk, that she realises how that blush could otherwise be interpreted. Which of course, only makes her cheeks even hotter.

Barry doesn’t even look at her.

Henry either doesn’t notice the tension or decides to ignore it, as he asks her, “Iris, did you enjoy the ball last night? I didn’t think I saw you before you left.”

Iris fidgets at the memory of drinking a little too much last night, and her deserved headache upon waking. “Yes, it was really fun. I, uh, may have let the wine get to me though.”

Henry laughs at that. “It was especially potent last night, I wouldn’t worry. I saw my advisor of healthcare throwing up on her wife’s shoes. I think Barry managed to escape it by only drinking apple cordial. Didn’t you, Barry?”

But Barry’s attention is taken up as he opens his mail at the table, just as Iris is finishing off her pastry, a delicious thing she’ll have to remember to ask the cooks to make when they get back to the West kingdom.

As he reads, and Henry pulls his face at Iris as if to apologise for his son’s silence, Barry asks without looking up, “Dad, is the reception room available for Iris and me to use?”

“Yes,” Henry says, frowning in confusion around his apple. “Why?”

Barry looks up to share a loaded look with Iris. “We have a visitor coming today, apparently.”

It turns out their guest is a diplomat sent from the East continent, making his way around their kingdoms and talking to various future rulers. Barry explains this in a distant tone as they walk towards the reception room, having dressed into more formal clothes and brushing their teeth after their meal. His expression is cool, and Iris can’t stand it. As she begins to recognise the tapestries they’re passing, and that they’ll be at the reception room in a few moments, she grabs at his elbow. He stops, and turns to look at her.

“Can we talk?”

He exhales, and she watches as the cool exterior he’d been upholding visibly melts away. She almost wants to hug him in relief, having not realised how used she was to a Barry she understood, a Barry who listened to her and talked to her and never distanced her. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I’m sorry about last night.” Before he can say anything, whether refusing or accepting her apology, she hurriedly continues. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. Whether you’re interested in Patty or not, I know you wouldn’t jeopardize our arrangement.”

“And that’s the reason you were angry?” Barry asks, carefully, after a pause.

She nods. “I was just shocked. And, maybe hurt at the idea you lied to me about Patty.” Even as he’s shaking his head, she adds, “I know now that you weren’t.”

“It’s fine, Iris, we both said things we shouldn’t have,” he says, finally with warmth in his eyes. She realises how much she missed it, even in the few hours since last seeing it.

So, she feels secure enough to continue, “And, look, you were right. It was unfair of me to be so mad at the idea of you and Patty when I have been writing to Eddie.” Not recently, but that’s hardly relevant – she just hasn’t wanted to tell him about Central City, that’s all.

He looks away and says, again. “It’s fine.”

But, all of a sudden, he doesn’t look fine.

“Come on,” he says, “We don’t want to keep our guest waiting.” His tone has softened, and he smiles before turning back in their original direction. But it’s a weak, transparent smile, and he still seems tense. Iris doesn’t know why, or what else she could’ve said. She’s trying to be the bigger person, here, even though she’s still kind of mad at how Barry kissed Patty back. Right out in public where anyone could have seen no less. Yet what else she can do in this moment but follow him into the reception room?

Their guest is an average looking man, with dark hair and almost translucent skin. He’s visibly sweating in the warmth of the reception room when Iris and Barry enter to meet him, but he doesn’t seem embarrassed or flustered, reaching to shake each of their hands. “Thank you for meeting me,” he says as they sit in the plush sofas, Barry and Iris sitting on one facing him. “Especially since I know it’s such short notice, but I was rolling through these parts when I heard the news you were on your honeymoon, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Iris says, punctuating her point by clasping Barry’s knee in a show of solidarity. She’s spent years studying body language in diplomacy matters, and she knows right now, in the early months of their marriage, they need to present a united front. “We’re happy to have you. Although your letter wasn’t very clear.”

“I’m just trying to set up relations with future monarchs, on behalf of my Tsar,” he explains. “My name’s Hartley, and of course I know who you two are. You’re quite the talk of these kingdoms, aren’t you?”

“I’m sure we’ll fade away when the next piece of gossip occurs,” Barry says smoothly. “But we’re certainly pleased to get to know your leader.”

“Excellent,” Hartley smiles. “Well, I’ll get straight to the point then. We know Central City has little to no navy, and we’d be happy to set up a trade agreement. We’d provide timber and certain technologies, for loyalty on your behalf, of course.”

Barry twists his lips. “I’m not actually King, yet,” he points out. “And Iris isn’t Queen. Why not ask my father?”

“It would take a few years to set up, and I know you’re less than four years away from your coronation,” Hartley explains.

“We’ll think about it,” Iris says neutrally. “Would you be able to provide exact numbers for your timber production, and how many men you’d be willing for us to sponsor for technological development?”

“Of course,” Hartley says, even looking a little surprised at her directness.

“You’re from the Midway Kingdom, aren’t you?” Barry confirms.

Before Hartley can reply, Iris can’t help but ask, quickly, “Isn’t that where the last sighting of the Shark Rex was? In your main lake?”

Hartley looks taken aback. “You’ve heard of Shark Rex? I thought that was just a local superstition.”

“There’s been multiple sightings,” Iris counters. “And only one was inebriated. I’d say that’s more than local superstition.”

“Is it just Shark Rex you’re interested in?” Hartley leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You know we’ve also had records of the Blizzard Brothers?”

“Yes, I read about them as well!” Iris says, wishing she’d brought her book on the oddities with her. “Aren’t they supposed to be able to control the weather? That’s just fascinating.”

Hartley nods, lips curling. “You really know a lot about this sort of stuff, don’t you?”

“Well,” Iris says, remembering her modesty perhaps a few moments too late. “I mean, I just dabble in reading.”

“Yeah, she knows all about it,” Barry contributes, and she looks in surprise to see him smiling at her, almost fondly, as though she hasn’t just completely diverted the entire conversation.

“You know, my Tsar, Brie, is also interested in that sort of thing.” Hartley says, so smoothly it almost seems like he planned the conversation this way, though that would be impossible. “She’s got whole libraries full of conspiracy books and scientific journals.”

“Perhaps she and I could start a correspondence,” Iris offers, already thinking about what kind of books she could send as a trade. The east continent would have whole new perspectives, and even more unknown meta-humans to study, her current topic of interest.

“Or,” he says, a little too casually to not be deliberate. “You might consider coming to stay with her for a while.”

Iris pauses to take that in. “But- the East continent is a month’s sea voyage.”

“You’d obviously be staying for at least three seasons,” Hartley says, as if that isn’t a commitment of most of a year to be away from her home, her family, and her husband, who’s still sitting right next to her.

“Oh,” she says. “Um, the opportunity does sound amazing, but I couldn’t leave for so long.  I’m sure your Tsar is lovely, and very interesting to talk to. I’m honoured to even be offered.”

“What if we would supply a full shipment of timber to sweeten the deal?”

“No,” interrupts Barry, a steely tone to his voice she hears rarely.

“Alright,” Hartley says, but the gleam in his eyes means Iris isn’t surprised when he tries again. “What about weekly shipments for all the time Iris is away? Surely that’s a fair bargain for your time, Princess, and a fair bargain for you, Prince, to be missing your wife.”

Nine months of free timber shipments would be an insane help to Central City’s economy, which sorely lacks the industry: Iris has seen the figures. She opens her mouth to say she’s reconsidering, and to see whether they can sweeten the offer a little more, when Barry responds for her, colder than she’s ever heard him.

“If you’re not going to take my  _wife_ ’s dismissal seriously, then perhaps we should continue this conversation at a later date.”

Her hand tightens on his knee, almost involuntarily, and he rests his hand on top, still staring at Hartley with a firm jaw.

“Perhaps you don’t understand what we’re offering,” Hartley says, though he doesn’t seem confused as much as condescending. “My Tsar would look after Princess West.”

“I’m sure she would,” Iris begins to placate.

But Hartley is ignoring her, directing his words to Barry instead. “The timber is surely worth the deal.”

Iris can’t help that her hackles raise at being referred to as a ‘deal’, but she doesn’t have time to retort as Barry stands, loosely pulling at her hand so she stands as well. “We won’t be accepting any deal of the kind. If this is all you came to talk about, please extend our courtesies to your Tsar, and repeat the idea Princess West-Allen mentioned about setting up a correspondence. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have another appointment.”

With that, he turns and Iris follows without him even having to hint for her to do so. She’s still in shock when they leave the room, and he lets go of her hand, continuing to talk even as she comes to a stop.

She shakes herself out of it, and chases after him. “That’s a good deal for Central City, Barry!”  She calls, having to almost jog to keep up with his long strides.

He spins to face her and counters, eyes blazing, “Do you want to go?”

She falters, stopping in her tracks. “What? No, of course not.”

The force of his gaze is almost overpowering as she stares up at him. “Then there’s no way you’re going.”

“It’s a good offer,” she says, but her voice is weak in the face of his determination. “That would be over fifty shipments of timber, and Central City forests are depleting rapidly, you and I both know that.”

“They could offer a thousand ships of gold, Iris,” he says, something in his eyes grabbing and holding her. “And it wouldn’t be your worth.”

He turns and walks away before she can even attempt to form a reply to that, blinking in shock.

-

Iris goes to the city’s public gardens, having asked a servant, probably rather rudely, where the hell she should go to clear her head of nonsensical husbands. She wanders the gravel paths, only half-heartedly noticing the beautiful flower arrangements and neatly trimmed hedges. In truth, the more she mulls it all over, she more irritated she is with Barry.  _He’s_  the one who was kissing other women in hallways. _He’s_ the one acting distant and then making such declarations in the next breath. And  _she’s_  the one who’s apologised! She eventually goes back to the main castle, frustration near tipping point, fully intending on asking Barry why he’s being so strange.

But as she reaches the courtyard, she sees something - or, more specifically, someone - who makes her want to turn back round.

Patty stands in front of a carriage, talking to Henry as servants pack a suitcase or two into the carriage. Patty and Henry embrace each other, briefly, and then Henry leaves. As Patty turns, she freezes, having obviously caught sight of Iris. And that reaction is really what compels Iris’ feet to move forward, crunching on the gravel and walk forward to the woman who has caused such issue in the past twenty-four hours.

“Princess West-Allen,” Patty says, though she doesn’t bow, and she already looks defeated.

Iris doesn’t bother with the formalities. “You kissed my husband last night. You knew I was there.”

Patty looks away, pressing her lips together. She says, “Yes, I did.”

Iris feels that irritancy rising back up, no matter how meek Patty might be playing this conversation. “You know he’s married. You know he has a kingdom to stay loyal to, even if you don’t respect me as his wife.”

Patty’s jaw tenses, and Iris thinks, here we go. But she wants answers, not an apology. “I didn’t respect you as his wife, you’re right.”

“Perhaps we should have invited you to the wedding,” Iris snaps pointedly.

“You barely know him!” Patty explodes. “I know it was a betrothal agreement, we all knew it existed. But that’s just paper, and for all we knew, he was going just to find out more about you. And then barely a few days later, news reaches us that he’s married. So, forgive me for having my doubts.”

Iris can understand that, but she still says, coldly, “I don’t care about your doubts, as long as you keep them to yourself.” Gesturing half-heartedly to the carriage, “Is that why you’re leaving?”

The blonde woman twists her lips. “I have an offer to study elsewhere, in National City. I’ve been putting off my decision until- until I knew whether there was anything to keep me here in Central City.” Patty exhales. “I wanted to know. I had to. You want to know why I kissed him. Yes, my- my feelings for him played a part. And it’s true, I only kissed him because I saw you watching.”

“So why did you do it?” Iris asks.

Here, Patty stumbles over her words, before finally admitting, “I had to know the truth. From you, or Barry, or both of you, I don’t know. I just- I had to force a reaction.”

Iris wants to ask what reaction she was hoping for, though she can perfectly imagine. Instead, she says, neutrally, “And did you get one?

Patty finally tilts her head and looks at her with an unreadable ocean in her eyes, before saying, quietly, reluctantly, “Yes, I did.” Her eyes flicker to the carriage holding her belongings, guiltily, as it betrays the lack of answer Barry gave her.

Iris steps back. “I hope you enjoy your time in National City, Lady Spivot.” She doesn’t wait for the other woman’s answer before she steps quickly into the castle.

Her anger has dissipated. Because hasn’t Patty confirmed Barry’s allegiance to the marriage, that he would chose loyalty over a mistress? And Patty’s leaving, anyway. It doesn't seem worth dredging up the argument again. 

She comes to a juncture in the corridors where she could turn left, going to the bedchamber they share and where Barry will inevitably show, or she could turn right, to the drawing rooms where she won’t be interrupted. She could fight with Barry, make him lay all his cards out on the table so she could finally understand him, or she could preserve their marriage as it is, despite the confusion she feels deep inside of her.

She turns right.

-

For the past few days, Iris has barely seen Barry, apart from getting into bed with him each night and waking up entwined with his body each morning (which, as if they’re acting like their unconscious bodies are wholly separate and autonomous from their waking ones, they have still not spoken about). When she has seen him, things between them are distant and weird. They haven’t even discussed books, which is definitely out of the ordinary.

Even Henry has noticed something off with them, his conversation starters at breakfast becoming more and more forced.

Iris has perhaps underestimated how much time she was spending with Barry, now she no longer has his reliable company. She wanders through the castle trying to befriend servants or visitors, but the servants seem too intimidated to really talk to her, and guests only stay a few hours.

So she’s glad when the day finally arrives that they’re scheduled to go back to the West kingdom. 

She’s still confused about Barry, her mind going round and round in circles. She can’t understand why he was still so distant from her after her apology. She chose non-confrontation for the sake of their marriage, to keep the peace for their arrangement, and she sticks by that decision. But, at the same time, she doesn’t want to lose him as a friend, especially when they have a few years left of this arrangement. Or even worse, she’ll lose him as a partner in all this madness.

It gets to the point where she’s dwelt enough on her confusion to start worrying if Barry is going to stay in Central City and not come back to the West kingdom at all. That he’ll want to annul the marriage altogether. Waiting on the courtyard on the day of their departure, having said her goodbyes to King Henry and thanked him profusely, she’s really beginning to panic.

Raymond, who had asked to come on the voyage under reasoning that he wanted to investigate a clue about his lost memory there, says, “Don’t worry, Princess. He’s probably just packing up all his books.”

She gestures to the servants loading the carriage. “All his things are already packed!”

But just as she’s starting to go a little mad, pacing a little by the packed carriages despite the fact they’re not leaving for another fifteen minutes, Barry finally appears, smiling cordially. “You’re early,” he comments.

“So are you,” she says, relieved that they can at least manage this, that they can be polite and maybe work their way back to being close. She even braves a sly, “We weren’t expecting you for an hour yet.”

He looks confused. "But we’re leaving in fifteen- oh.” His expression clears as he realises her joke and rolls his eyes. “Ha-ha. Because I’m always late. Very funny.”

“I thought so,” she teases.

“Just get in the carriage.” But he’s grinning, and things feel normal again, for the first time in five days.

If anything, she’s just glad it’s not going to be awkward on the journey home, one that is estimated at seven hours riding time with at least six rests for the horses and servants.

She sees he’s brought a book with him, and she nods to it once they’re seated inside. “What’s that?”

He looks surprised, as if he’d forgotten he was even carrying it, and then says, quietly, bashfully, “It’s just a book of fables and fairy tales. It was, ah, my mother’s favourite.”

She doesn’t know how to respond to that, and tries to ignore the warmth at the idea of him bringing what is most likely his most prized possession back to the West castle. Instead of commenting on that, she asks, “Was she a fan of reading as well?”

“Oh, definitely.” His eyes alight, even as the carriage starts moving, rumbling on the road and jolting them every other moment or so as they pass over loose stones and pebbles. “She would always read to me as a kid, and she’d make up stories as well.”

“What kind of stories?” Iris asks, genuinely interested, and feeling fond of the happiness he radiates.

He immediately launches into one, a story about a scientist trying to become the fastest man alive. Iris has to admit half her attention is on the story, and half is on the way Barry tells it.

Then he asks what her favourite story was growing up, and she has to tell the one her mother always told her, which was always half a warning (one that Iris didn’t listen to) and half a fairytale. It was about a girl who wanted to find out why the sheep kept going missing and ended up discovering a dragon. Iris is sure the part about the dragon was meant to scare her, when instead, it intrigued her. The thought of her mother makes her a little wistful, it being the longest time she’s been apart from Francine – she’ll have to write to her when she gets back to the castle.

Lost in thought about her mother, she’s only jolted back to reality when Barry clears his throat, hands clasped together and fidgeting. “Listen, Iris,” he begins, and then hesitates.

“What is it?” she asks, gently, feeling inexplicably nervous for some mad reason. As if she has no idea what he’s about to say, but she both wants to hear it and wants to run away.

“I talked to my dad. A couple of days ago. About- well, about us.”

Iris immediately goes into worst-case-scenario mode. But why would he wait until they were both on their way to the West Kingdom, with another five hours left trapped in a small space, to explain that he wanted out of the marriage? “And?” She prompts, when he still seems to be struggling with the words.

“And- he said that I should be honest to you, about why- why I kissed Patty back, even if was just for a second.”

Iris feels anger rise hot at the memory, the glimpse she’d seen of his lips moving against someone else’s lips, but she keeps a close lid on the ridiculously overdramatic feeling.

“I wanted- I don’t know, maybe this arrangement has been harder than I thought. And maybe some stupid part of me wanted someone, or you, to see. Mostly it was instinct but when I really think about it…” His tongue quickly darts out to moisten his bottom lip before he says, “I wanted a reaction.”

“That’s what Patty said,” Iris says, almost to herself.

Barry’s chin darts up at that. “You talked to Patty? When?”

“Just before she left.” To clarify, she adds, “She said she wanted a reaction from you, and from me. I don’t think she was pleased with the results.”

Barry’s watching her carefully. “And? What was your reaction?”

But before she can even think of a way to reply, suddenly, the carriages shudders to a stop.

Iris frowns. She’s sure they weren’t scheduled for a rest for another hour and a half, and sees that Barry looks equally as confused. The veiled window shows only canyon walls raised on either side - she can’t imagine why they’d stop for even an unscheduled stop here. There can’t be water for horses, or food, or shelter.

Then they both hear unfamiliar voices, shouting, “This is a robbery! Hands where we can see them!”

Iris and Barry share a panicked look. “Fuck,” Iris breathes.

A hand shoots through the window to reach the handle, twisting it and yanking the door. “Get out!” The owner of the hand yells, a masked man wearing all black and waving a long, sharp sword. “Out, out, out!”

Iris kicks out at him, instead. Her foot lands square in his face and he goes flying in the rock, feet audibly scraping in the dusty road and head smacking as he lands on his back.

“Iris.” Barry says, sounding more frustrated than particularly worried.

Another bandit comes to the door, holding two small daggers. This one’s a woman, with long, straight brown hair, and a mask covering most of her face. “Try that with me and I’ll slice your foot off,” she threatens, with an unsettling smile.

Barry’s eyes flit to Iris, silently signalling for her to not antagonise another bandit. Even Iris can see the sense in that, considering she’s not sure how many more of them there are, and they’ll soon start threatening the servants. Raymond will be out there as well, having sat in the following security carriage.

She obediently shuffles out of the carriage, landing on the road awkwardly since she has to twist around the groaning bandit she’d kicked. His nose is bleeding, obviously broken, which she takes a grim sense of satisfaction in. She steps aside as Barry follows her, and keeps her hands up in surrender. The bandits gesture for her to join the other members of their party on the side of the road, all lined up together.

“We’ll be fine,” Barry whispers, under his breath. She certainly hopes so - she’s got a dagger attached to her ankle, and there’s a full sword in a hidden compartment of the carriage. Never let it be said that Joe and Francine West didn’t raise a paranoid daughter.

She just doesn’t want anyone else injured. Unwelcome images pop into her mind: Barry, hit over the head with a rock and crumpling the floor; Barry, sliced through the chest and looking at her with confused eyes; Barry, bleeding into the canyon rock. She feels physically ill at the thought, which is a feeling she’ll definitely be worrying about later.

There’s about five bandits altogether, including the one who’s now picking himself off the floor with a disgruntled expression aimed specifically at Iris. She ignores him, sizing up the others. The leader seems to be a guy with no mask, as if he’s so confident it doesn’t matter who sees his face. If Iris is honest, it’s a good scare tactic.

“This is my fault,” Barry breathes, so low she’s not even sure she’s supposed to hear. Her chin darts round at that to give him an incredulous look– how could he honestly think that? He chose the route, but there was no way of avoiding the canyons, even though there had been reports of increased bandit activity, unless they wanted to add an extra five hours and a swamp to their journey.

Before she can even whisper to him that he’s being a martyr for no reason, the lead bandit says, cool and slick, “Give me your personal treasures, everyone. Let’s see your jewellery and your valuables.”

He starts walking along the group as they shuffle about, undoing their hob-watches and their necklaces, their wedding rings and their silk handkerchiefs. Raymond stands a few servants away, and hands over his golden cuff – Iris recognises it as the cuff he’d been named by, the only possession of his old life, and she aches for his loss.

The lead bandit stops in front of Iris, and she sees that there’s a strange crystal in the hilt of his sword, swirling blue and ice and white.She finds herself staring at it, and he tilts his head, that sneering smirk on his lips. “See something you like, Princess?”

She jolts at that, fear finally hitting at her. He knows who she is – they’re on the outskirts of the West kingdom, so she should’ve expected that. She must have become used to being less easily recognised back in Central City.

“Yeah, I recognised you,” he says at her flinch. “And I know what you’re worth.”

Her chin juts out. “All my valuables are in the suitcases in the carriage.”

“That’s all of them?” He raises his eyebrows. “I doubt that.” His eyes flicker to her simple gold locket necklace, and she feels a fierce rush of protectiveness over it, knows instinctively that they’ll have to pry it from her neck against her will.

“I don’t like travelling with many things when I’m travelling alone,” she says firmly, sticking to her story, hoping against hope that she can convince them not to harm her or anyone else. “I have all my expensive dresses and jewellery in there.”

His eyes slide to Barry, who meets his gaze stubbornly. “Travelling alone, huh? Who’s this, then?”

Iris makes a small scoff, forcing the bandit’s attention back to her. “Come on, you’re going to make me say it? Am I not allowed my discretions?”

His eyebrows raise almost to his hairline, and he lets out a snort of laughter. “You’re a brazen princess, huh? You take your kept boy on your journeys?”

“We were looking for some privacy,” Iris says, adopting a deliberately haughty tone. She knows the persona they’ll expect, this far out, where rumours and tales of the royals are exaggerated and distorted. She once met a villager from the other far side of the kingdom who thought she was a product of incest, despite her father being an only child.

“Aren’t you supposed to be married?” he counters. He turns to Barry, and Iris turns as well, trying to lead with her eyes for Barry to keep the story going. If she’s the only one of value, maybe they’ll let them go. (Or, maybe, as she’s coming quickly to terms with, maybe they’ll just take her for the ransom.)

“Hence the secrecy,” she says, praying that Barry will just play along. If they think they’ve just got one royal, maybe they’ll let everyone else go.

He holds his finger straight in front of her to silence her. “I want to hear it from him. Who are you, exactly?“

Barry wrenches his gaze away from Iris and says, after a beat, "I’m Prince West-Allen, of Central City. Her husband.”

Well, fuck.

The man’s smirk curls. “I like you two. Trying to look after each other. That’s cute. But here’s what’ll happen when you lie to me.” He curls his arm and brings the sword off his shoulder, grasping the hilt more firmly and letting the blue-white light peek out in the creases between his fingers. Then, before they can blink, he brings it up and across. Iris flinches, bring her hands up to her throat in instinct.

But the bandit wasn’t aiming for her: the servant next to her lets out a scream. Iris looks in horror: his left ear has been chopped neatly off. But most strange off all is that there’s no blood, and ice crystals are spattered across the wound. Iris raises her hand to her mouth in horror. The sword must be magic, some kind of blessing from an ice wizards in the north.

“Oh god,” she breathes.

The servant - his name is Samuel - raises his hand, shaking, to pat the wound, lip quivering in horror. “It doesn’t hurt,” he says, as if too shocked to feel the horror or the pain. “But you- you chopped off my ear.”

“See,” the bandit says, in a cool tone, and Iris hates him with a fuel she’s rarely felt before. “I’m generous. I’ve numbed the pain.”

“You chopped off my ear!” Samuel shrieks, diving at the bandit in his hysterics. Which the aforementioned bandit was clearly not expecting.

In the chaos, as all the other robbers look at Martin, on top of the lead bandit and hitting him with no real finesse, Iris spring into action, ducking down to pull out her dagger and slashing at the calves of the nearest bandit. He goes down with a yell, but she’s already running to the carriage and slashing at the canvas fabric across the roof, revealing the hidden pouch where her sword is.

She senses someone behind her and when she turns, she holds her sword firm at gut height. It slices across the female bandit who’d threatened her at the carriage, and she freezes at the blood that splatters with it. It’s only shallow, she knows it, but it’s still the first time she’s ever put her sword to something that isn’t filled with flour or grain.

But the female bandit only straightens, ignoring the ebbing cut across her shoulder as she draws her own sword from her hilt. “Princess knows how to play with swords, huh?” she taunts, meanness glittering from her cool blue eyes.

“You’re not going to hurt anyone else,” Iris promises, planting her feet in the ground and steeling herself. Over the bandit’s shoulder, she can see chaos, can see Raymond and Barry and the servants fighting and shouting.

“That’s cute,” the bandit replies, before twirling the sword expertly between her fingers with graceful wrist movement. “Really, very cute.”

Iris feels dread drip into her stomach. But upon recognising how hopeless unmatched she is, she just thrusts before the bandit can finish her move, catching her in her shoulder. The bandit bites down her shriek as Iris quickly pulls the sword back, rebalancing herself. Her hands are clammy and her pulse feels too loud in her ears.

The masked woman switches hands for her own sword, mouth snarling, and lunges forward. Their swords clash over and over again, but it’s clear who the more dominant one is, as Iris keeps stumbling backwards, barely keeping her footing as she tries to match each blow. Desperate, she dodges the next blow and spins around, swiping at the other woman’s back and catching her at the base of her spine. Though the bandit yelps out in pain, staggering forward, Iris nearly falls to her ass with the momentum, forced to keep stepping backwards to remain upright. But as she does so, she backs into a solid weight, too busy watching the female bandit to check where her feet were taking her.

She tried to spin around, her sword held firm, but arms snap to hold her tight against the firm torso. Dread fills her as one hand grabs across her arms, and the other holdings a glowing, icy sword to her throat.

“Everybody freeze!” The leader yells. He turns both himself and Iris to face everybody else - Iris can see everyone is still alive, though looking battered. The leader continues as they all fall silent, servants looking in horror and bandits looking relieved, “Everybody put down your weapons, or your Princess will be headless before you can even begin to beg for mercy.

In that moment, her world narrows down to Barry, sees the horror in his face, the way desperation lines his mouth and fear swirls in his eyes. She wants to reassure him, wants him to know this isn’t his fault, that at least he’s free of their arrangement now. But her blood pounds in her ears, in her veins, and she can’t speak.

She’s both relieved and scared that the servants all put down their makeshift weapons - one holds the whip he was using to control the horse - and hold up their hands in surrender.

"You too, Prince,” the leader taunts. Barry looks torn, and Iris really hopes he isn’t thinking of actually trying to take on all the bandits by himself. The one holding Iris raises the sword a little closer to Iris’s jugular, to the point where she can feel the coolness of it. Barry lets go of his sword like he’s been branded, letting it clang to the floor with loud finality. “Better,” the leader says. “Now, where were we?”

Barry’s jaw tenses. “Let her go.”

“I’m not sure about that,” the bandit says, voice deceptively calm from behind Iris. “Think about how much money the heir to the West kingdom is worth.”

But before he can continue that thought, he gurgles, oddly. His grip loosens on Iris, and she instinctively takes the opportunity to push at his arm and twist out of his hold.

She stumbles forward and Barry is there to catch her before she even realises she’s going to him. She throws her arms around his neck and holds him close, though the sane part of her brain is reminding her of all those bandits surrounding them. “Iris,” he exhales, and she realises his arms are wrapped around her just as tightly, face pressed into her neck. She allows herself such mad weakness for only a moment before she relinquishes him, and turns around to see what is happening.

The bandit who held her is on the ground, immobile and a puddle of blood slowly growing from underneath him, and Raymond stands above him, holding a bloody sword. It doesn’t take a genius to put those particular clues together. Raymond breathes heavily, staring at the bandit’s body in shock. Everyone else in the canyon is still and silent.

Raymond raises his chin to survey the remaining bandits. “Leave,” he commands, finally sounding like the nobility his cuff claimed him to be.

And they do; the bandits scatter like spiders, darting away to where the party had come from.

“Raymond,” Iris says, standing firm. “Thank you.” She doesn’t know what else to say, how she can possibly express her gratitude.

He shakes his head. “It’s fine, you would’ve-” but suddenly he staggers, the sword dropping, and he falls to his knees.

“Raymond!” Iris and Barry rush forward to support his weight. As Iris holds her palm flat against his abdomen, she feels wet warmth, and red blood quickly spills over the hand.

“No,” Barry says, faintly. He’s shaking his head, staring at his friend. And Iris will not let Barry mourn another person, not as long as she has something to say about it.

“We need to get him to the West Castle,” Iris commands. “We’re three hours out - if we plug up the wound, he might have a chance.” But Barry is still staring blankly, and Raymond’s face is losing colour quickly. There’s no choice: Iris snaps, “Barry!”

He jolts back to attention.

“Help me get him into the carriage,” she commands, and he nods, the instructions keeping him focused as she and Barry lift Raymond into an upright position, supporting most of his weight, she barks out to any servant that will listen, “Get the healing potions and bandages from the security carriage. Quickly!”

Some other servants dash over to help them lift Raymond into the main carriage - before Iris follows him in, she does a quick headcount over the others. “Who else is injured?”

But only Samuel raises his hand, and even he says, “The ice of that sword has stopped the bleeding, Princess. Take the nobleman first.”

She nods, and even before she shuts the carriage door, the crack of the driver’s whip sends the horse racing down the roads and the carriage hurtling away from the scene.

Iris settles Ronnie so his head is cushioned on her lap, with Barry sitting on the opposite carriage bench. Her husband looks grave, and pale, so it falls to her to keep Raymond talking. She tells him, “We’re going to take you to Caitlin, okay, she’s our healer.”

“Caitlin,” Raymond echoes in a moan, eyes fluttering closed.

Iris smacks his cheek. If he wants to focus on a name, so be it, but he needs to stay awake. “Yes, Caitlin. She’ll be pissed off if all she has to work with is a dead body, and so will I.”

Between them, they manage to slow the bleeding, and the healing potions are hopefully enough to keep him at least stable. His important organs don’t seem to be affected, but Iris has only had rudimentary medical training, and Barry only knows the theory of it. They just have to pray they get to the West castle in time.

“I- I shouldn’t have let him come,” Barry says, an hour into the journey.

“You can’t think like that,” Iris replies gently.

Barry doesn’t reply, instead scrubbing a stressed hand through his hair and watching his friend breathe haggardly in and out.

They eventually pull up to the West castle, the drawbridge already lowered on account of the recognisable carriage. They hurtle into the courtyard, and Iris can hear the driver yell out, “We need Caitlin! We need a physician!”

“Caitlin,” Raymond murmurs again.

“Almost there,” Iris assures, privately encouraged by his apparently strong short-term memory.

The carriage door opens and servants are waiting with a stretcher which between them, they manage to lower Raymond onto. Barry and Iris are quick out of the carriage, and watch as Caitlin comes running down, still tying her apron around her and carrying a bag of equipment over her shoulder. She gestures for the servants to place him down on the ground and she skids to a stop by the stretcher, dropping to her knees.  She reaches for the makeshift bandages wrapped around the wound, her other hand reaching for her equipment.

But then she freezes.

“Caitlin,” Raymond croaks again.

“Yes, the physician’s here now, Raymond,” Iris says, frustration leaking into her voice as she asks, “Caitlin? What are you waiting for?”

Caitlin lets out a sob. “Ronnie.” Her hand reaches, trembling, to cup his cheek, and Raymond opens his eyes fully for the first time since they lifted him into the carriage.

“I remember you,” Raymond whispers. “Caitlin, how could I have ever forgotten you?”

Barry and Iris share a look. “Raymond is-“ Barry begins, slowly.

Iris finishes, a little awestruck, “Caitlin’s fiance thought to be dead. His attack – he lost his memories.”

Iris looks down as Caitlin, tears running from her cheeks, starts to treat him, and thinks that she’s never before thought of two people as star-crossed before.

But then her attention is snapped by the figure that appears in the castle doorway, and she’s running forward before she even thinks it through.

“Mother!”

Francine laughs as her daughter barrels into her. “Hello, darling. I take it you did miss me after all.”

Iris’s response is to squeeze her mother harder. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

“Me too,” Francine admits. They pull apart, and Francine turns, her smile more civil but no less genuine as she greets. “And Barry, it’s good for you to be here again.”

He must have followed Iris up to the huge entrance. “Thanks, Queen West,” he replies, looking a little awkward. Iris realises it’s the first time he’s really spoken to her mother, which seems a little ridiculous. He starts to bow, but Francine only rolls her eyes, and pulls him into a hug as well.

“Come on, now, we’re family. Tell me all about your journey.”

Barry and Iris share an uneasy look. “Well,” Iris stretches out the sound. “There were a few bandits.”

“ _Bandits?”_  Francine stops short – as something catches her eye past them. Barry and Iris look together to see what Francine sees: a crying Caitlin operating on her presumed-dead fiancée in the middle of the castle courtyard. “Oh,” she says, dumbstruck. “Bandits.”

-

Caitlin manages to stabilise Ronnie, and gives the instructions for him to be brought to her own chambers. Iris is certainly happy for her friend – she just hopes maybe she gives her fiancée a little time to heal before their reunion gets too exuberant.

Francine follows Iris and Barry to their bedchambers, Iris talking animatedly about their time in Central City, and about everything else Francine had missed. Barry stays mostly quiet – as they reach Iris’ bed chambers, he says, “I’m, uh, going to go unpack in my own chambers. I’ll see you around, Iris. And, uh, Quee- Francine.” He looks like he wants to bow again, but just manages to restrain himself. He gives Iris a nod, which abruptly, suddenly, won’t do. She barely considers it before she quickly catches him before turning, and wraps him in a tight embrace.

He’s stiff, and possibly too aware of her mother to hug her back. She whispers, only realising how true it is as the words come to her, “I’m really glad they didn’t hurt you, Barry.”

And that is enough to unthaw him, it seems – in the next moment, his arms tighten around her, and he tucks his face against her head. He swallows, and says, “I’m not sure what I would do if you were harmed, Iris.” Then he quickly lets go of her, and she doesn’t even have time to read his expression before he’s striding away to his own chambers, going through the door just a few feet away.

Iris turns back to her mother, ignoring the speculation on Francine’s face, and as they go into Iris’ chambers to unpack her clothes, starts talking about the strange type of waltz they have at Central City.

Just as Iris is reaching the story about Raymond – rather, Ronnie – teaching her, Francine says, “Iris.” She sounds confused.

Iris falters in her telling of the story, as she looks to where Francine is holding a letter: it takes Iris a moment to recognise it as an unopened one from Eddie. She realises she hadn’t even thought to check for mail, too distracted by getting home and talking to Francine.

“What is this?” Francine asks, though she must know: the Thawne blue wax seal is unmistakable, their house of arms embedded in the dried liquid.

“A letter from Sir Thawne,” Iris says, not sure whether to be meek or defensive. She settles for honest.

“You’re still talking to him?” Francine finally looks up, and Iris can only see genuine confusion in the eyes so similar to her own. “I don’t understand.”

“I- I told him that I wasn’t actually in love with Barry,” Iris admits. “When we were first married. He hasn’t told anyone!” She quickly says, trying to hold off the judgement she’s sure is coming.

“But why are you still-” Francine tilts her head. “Do you still have feelings for him?”

Iris recoils, unsure why her mother even needs to ask that. Even worse, she doesn’t know why she stutters over her answer: “Yes, of course I do. My marriage with Barry never changed that, that’s why I wrote to him in the first place. I wanted him to know it was arranged, for the kingdom.”

“Iris,” Francine says, as if Iris is being deliberately dense. She searches her daughter’s face, before letting out a breath, choosing her next words carefully. “Darling, you wanted to know why your father and I never told you about Barry. I’m sure meeting Henry didn’t help matters - he was always very open with Barry about you.”

“I did wonder,” Iris admits, thinking back to her conversation with Henry on the very subject.

“You know we’ve always wanted you to be happy. And we always wanted you to marry for love. We didn’t want to try and influence you.”

“I know that,” Iris says. “It was my choice to marry Barry, though, even if I don’t love him.”

Francine makes a little sound from the back of her throat, and then tries a different tack. “But we also wanted you to reserve judgement on Barry. You’re similar in many ways.”

Iris nods slowly, hooping her mother isn’t going where she suspects she is with this. “We are. But I care for Ed- Sir Thawne.”

“I know, I know. You’ve had your mind set on Sir Thawne for a long time now.” Francine lets out a long sigh, and stands, handing the letter to her daughter. “I’m just not sure you’ve ever had your heart set on him, darling.”

Iris doesn’t say anything, staring at the letter as her mother leaves the room and her words swirl in Iris’s mind.

-

Later that evening, after Iris has fully unpacked, she’s sitting at her desk. Eddie’s letter lies unopened beside her fidgeting fingers. For some weird reason, she can’t bring herself to open it. The room seems too large, too quiet. The letter seems to hold too much pressure.

Slamming down her hands and pushing her chair away, she stands. She needs to clear her head, that’s all: it’s been a wild day. And so the room feels a little empty; that’s just because she’s been sharing one for a week, of course she’s going to need a few hours to adjust.

She reaches for her bookcase, thinking that she may as well read up on some old treaties to distract herself, and even maybe bore her enough to make her sleepy enough for bed. As she pulls out a book of the history of the Savitar Empire, a page falls out with weakened, frayed edges. A brief paragraph on the page catches her eye, detailing the decision for Central City to be its own territory rather than assimilate into the West Kingdom. The main reason given is that the West Kingdom’s economy was too weak at the time to support the new land and people, a fact which certainly is no longer true.

Iris’ mind starts whirring. Perhaps assimilating Central City totally would be too rash of a move, especially if its people believed their independence would be taken from them. But this created precedence for better trade, better relations. This could be further evidence, along with her and Barry’s marriage, to finally unite the kingdoms, and remove any remaining prejudice.

The piece of parchment clasped in her hand, she quickly makes her way to Barry’s bed chambers. She knocks on his door before she can think better of it, before she can remember things between her and Barry are hardly dependable.

“Iris?” he asks, opening the door.

“I have to talk to you about something,” she says, her voice betraying her enthusiasm as she speaks quickly.

Something like hopefulness flashes across his face, lips twitching as if betraying his reaction against his intent. “Yeah?”

“I was thinking,” she says, gesturing animatedly, “That we could set up some more trade agreements between West Kingdom and Central City. Hartley was right, you don’t have enough of a navy, but a formal alliance with us would mean we could supply you with that timber, and you could share some of your technologies for us. I know my father’s been trying to industrialise our agriculture, perhaps…“

But as she speaks, his expression closes down, becomes neutral. He nods. “Yeah, I could speak to my father about it.” He smiles, but it’s faint. “It’s a good idea, Iris – a really good idea.”

She feel her brows creasing a little in confusion – if he thinks the idea is so good, why doesn’t he sound more enthusiastic? Before she can ask, her father’s voice rings down the corridor.

“That Wells, I swear, is going to give me grey hairs.” He’s walking with Singh, looking frustrated. “I’ve had to give him a room to stay in since he’s staying for the ball tomorrow, but I just wish he’d go bother someone else."

Singh replies, "He might have more options if he hadn't made so many enemies across the area, making inventions and then double selling them to every other-" He stops as he sees Iris and Barry look at him, as does Joe.

“Dad?” Iris asks. “Advisor Singh? Are you okay?”

Joe smiles – it’s a little forced, if she’s honest. “I am now I’ve seen you two are back – your mother tells me there were bandits.”

“Kind of,” Iris says. “Did you talk to Caitlin? Ronnie’s back, you know.”

“No, ah- I was going to, but her door was locked.” His expression tells them all how little he wants to pursue that line of thought. “I decided not to knock.”

“What’s going on?” Iris asks, looking at both men as if a slight flinch of their expressions will give her more information.

“Just preparing things for the welcome back ball tomorrow,” Joe replies smoothly. He huffs, though his lips curl in humour. “I know, I can’t believe we’ve having another one. But with your mother back as well, it seems apt. And I believe there’s some kind of social etiquette that requires another celebration post-honeymoon, I don’t know.”

“Right,” Iris says, a little flatly, because he knows damn well that’s not what she was asking about.

“Anyway,” Joe says, clapping his hands together. “It’s good to have you back. Both of you,” he emphasises to Barry, before he and Singh continue their journey down the corridor and past Barry and Iris.

Iris watches him to go, frowning. “I wonder…” She realises Barry hasn’t spoken, and that he’s suddenly breathing much more harshly than before. She turns to him with alarm on her face that only increases when she sees how pale he is. “Barry?”

“Who was he talking about?” he demands.

“My dad?” Iris is confused by the intensity in Barry’s expression. “Uh, Lord Wells, I presume.”

“I know that name,” he says, almost to himself, pupils darting in thought.

“I imagine so, he’s been around the area,” Iris replies nonchalantly, still confused as to what Lord Wells has to do with the panic etching itself on Barry’s skin. “You’ve seen him just a few weeks ago, remember when we were sparring on the lawns?”

While the memory makes heat curl in her belly for some reason, his eyebrows only furrow.

“Barry?” She asks, reaching for his arm. “Are you okay?”

“I know that name,” he says again, looking up and urging with his eyes for her to listen to him. “Iris, Harrison Wells was visiting Central City when my mother was killed.”

“What- what are you saying?” Iris asks, though the creeping dread in her stomach is enough for her to make an educated guess.

“He has blue eyes,” he says, sounding like he’s been punched.

“He was there for my birthday ball,“ Iris says, slowly, information slotting into place and suspicion dawning. “When my mother was poisoned.”

Barry looks up. “That’s- it’s just a coincidence, isn’t it?”

Iris swallows, considering their options. She makes her decision not based on logic, but the memory of Barry’s voice telling her about the night his mother was killed. “My father said he’s staying here for the night, didn’t he? Maybe- maybe we follow him, or try to sneak into his room.”

Barry nods slowly. “Where would he be staying? The guest quarters?”

“Yeah,” Iris affirms. “Maybe- it’s dinner time soon, he’ll have left his chambers.”

Ten minutes later, after a tip from a maid, they’re gently tapping on the door to Wells’ chambers. When there’s no reply, they push it open, and peer inside. Iris isn’t sure what they were expecting – maybe a note pinned to the wall that read ‘I am a murderer!’ – but it seems Wells hasn’t even unpacked. “Is this the right room?” Barry asks sceptically.

But Iris spies a leather case on the bed, and she quickly darts forward. Carefully opening it, she inspects its contents. There’s nothing incriminating on first inspection, apart from a small vial of unlabelled liquid. Iris’ heart beats fast – could this be the very poison used on her mother?

“Iris!” Barry hisses from the doorway, and she drops the bottle in shock. Luckily, it falls back into the case, which she slams shut. “I hear footsteps!”

She runs back out of the room and doesn’t stop as she barrels into Barry. "Quick, hide!” she exclaims. Acting on pure instinct, she pushes Barry against the far wall of the corridor and through the tapestry, ignoring his look of shock.

Unbeknownst to most people, this particularly tapestry hides a very small alcove, from where there used to be a window before some storm damage required it to be bricked up a few generations ago. It’s only just large enough for them to squeeze into. The tapestry falls into place on the other side, effectively hiding them.

It seems the best idea at the time, but, she realises, pressed against his chest and clutching his shirt, that maybe it isn’t her most well thought out one.

They stay very still, breathing in tandem - which Iris knows because her torso is literally pressed against Barry’s so tightly, that she can feel when his lungs swell and decompress. They hear Lord Wells’ footsteps come closer.

She’s never been so hyper-aware of where her hands are, how she breathes against his collarbone. She feels him shift, and she tilts her head up to realise he’s looking down at her. Their height difference makes it uncomfortable, but she finds she can’t move, can’t look away from him.

“Iris,” he breathes, his voice cracking and barely audible.

“Shush,” she whispers, and she’s looking into those deep green eyes trying to remember what the next part of that sentence is supposed to be, something about why they’re staying silent, but he’s leaning down, and she’s on her tip toes, and her hands twist in his shirt for balance-

They’re kissing.

Not the gentle kiss of the ball - if she ever fooled herself into thinking that was the real deal, she must have been an idiot. That she could ever mistake that closed press of lips for  _this_ , for a real kiss, is ridiculous.

His hands are curled around her back, pressing her tight against him, as if there’s any space left between them. His lips are strong as they move against hers, trapping her bottom lip and just hinting at his tongue, hot and slick and making her breath come short and fast. She feels as she’s drowning, which is a metaphor she never understood before until now. She feels as if she’s both on fire and at the bottom of the ocean. But most of all, she feels anchored, as one of his hands reaching up to curl in her hair and change the angle, deepen the kiss.

“Barry,” she breathes against his lips. Perhaps she means to say that Wells has probably gone by now, but it’s lost in the haze as Barry pushes her against the wall, covering her from all angles, using his other hand to cup her jaw and his hips to press against hers. Her hand curls in his hair as if to pull him closer, as if that were even physically possible. She feels his bulge – oh, how she should stop this - and one of her hands trails down to untuck his shirt and reach up, up, to feel the bare skin of his abdomen with the flat of her palm. “ _Barry_ ,” she lets escape, a whine more than anything else, a pleaded whisper.

He wrenches himself away, staggering to hit his back against the other wall.

They stare at each other for a long moment. Barry’s shirt is creased and untucked, and his lips are swollen and red and- gods, she wants to kiss him again. She probably looks no better, her hair and eyes wild.

“Iris,” Barry croaks, and she has to leave, before she falls further into the unknown.

“I’ll see you at the ball,” she cuts across him, though she’s too high-pitched to even claim normalcy. “We’ll look for Wells then, alright? Don’t do anything by yourself.”

He frowns as if she’s said something ridiculous. “ _Iris_ -”

And she can’t deal with him saying her name, can’t hear the syllables pass one more time from his lips. She pushes away the tapestry and makes a tactical retreat to her bedchambers, like a coward.

He doesn’t follow her. 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter left after this!

Linda must notice Iris’s mind is elsewhere as they prepare for the ball, but she’s kind enough not to say anything. Iris keeps touching her lips, paranoid they’re still swollen despite the hours that have passed. “Can you turn off the fire?”  she asks, and though Linda raises her eyebrows in silent judgement, another of the maids obediently douses it. “It’s too warm,” Iris defends.

“Sure it is,” Linda says, a shade too innocently. “It’s almost unseasonable for November.”

Iris lets out a small huff. She’d like to tell Linda everything, wants to know her best friend’s opinion, but her mind is too scattered to even form words. What is she going to say to Barry? Should she mention it to Eddie in her next letter, whenever she finally gets round to writing it, or should she never even tell him at all? She tells herself that it didn’t mean anything, it was the proximity, and the adrenaline! Really, there’s nothing to tell.

Linda says, unaware of Iris’s tumultuous thoughts, lightly, “You know, there’s lots of guests arriving tonight.”

“That is the point of a ball, isn’t it?” Iris says, almost without thinking.

Linda makes a meaningful, pointed expression at Iris’s reflection in the mirror, as some maids tie in her corset. “Don’t you want to ask me about some of these guests?”

“I heard one of them was from Queen Brie’s court,” one of the younger maids, Artemis or something, pipes up.

Iris startles at the name. “Queen Brie? From the East continent?” That had been who Hartley had been representing when he had visited Barry and her at Central City.

Artemis nods, eyes wide with the excitement of having particularly good gossip. “I hear she sends her nobles out to find the most beautiful and interesting people in the land to invite them to hers, and then she treats them  _horribly_. One person complained of experiments, another of indecency.”

Iris’ mind whirs; is that why Barry had reacted so fiercely when Hartley had made the offer? Did he know what happened at Queen Brie’s court? Anxiously, she reaches up to fiddle with her necklace.

Linda makes an unimpressed ‘humph’. “Yes, quite, but I think, Iris, you might want to hear about some of the other guests, wouldn’t you?”

Iris narrows her eyes, trying to work out what her friend is hinting, rather unsubtly, at. “Not really…?”

“For example, Lord Palmer will be there. And Lord Thawne. And I believe his nephew, whatever his name is.” Linda says, almost off-handedly if it weren’t be for the way her eyes bore into the reflection of Iris’. “Also, the two Lady Lances.”

Iris jolts as the words filter through her tumultuous mind. Lord Thawne’s nephew: that’s  _Eddie_.

Eddie’s back?

Iris is thankful that Linda is mindful of the maids in the room as well as how much Iris would appreciate a warning before seeing Eddie. The rush of gratitude she feels for her friend’s subtlety  is only just shadowed by the quickening of her pulse.  She also feels- anticipation? Mostly nervousness, but it has been so long since she last saw him that it is a perfectly normal reaction, surely.

Eddie didn’t write to her, didn’t even warn her - but he probably meant it as a surprise, of course. And, admittedly, she hasn’t written to him for a couple of weeks now. She had been meaning to, but was always putting it off…

She focuses on not panicking. It’ll be fine. Eddie’s already forgiven her for marrying Barry - oh god. She realises with a rush of anxiety: Barry and Eddie are going to be in the same room.

She takes a deep breath, ignoring the way the bones of her corset cut into her and the irritated huff her maid gives her. Her dress tonight is a beautiful thing, a deep red and gold piece that flows to the floor and laces across her lower back, revealing the smooth skin of her back just enough to be fashionable but not so much to reveal too much. Her hair is down, trailing down in loose curls to circle the scoop of her neck line, her locket resting as usual on her collarbone, the only necklace she ever wears.

When she puts in her mother’s dangling gold earrings, the outfit is complete, and there’s nothing left but to wait. Linda sprays the perfume on her as the other maids leave, having done their duty. Soon, Barry will come to pick her up and escort her down to the ball - now she is married, her brother is now the one to be introduced last as the last bachelor of the family.

She shakes off her nervousness, pulling away her hand from where it’s been fiddling with her locket out of habit. She is a West, dammit. She is not going to be made into a wreck by mortal men, no matter how confusing they all might be.

“Iris-”

Linda starts, into the silence, and then abruptly stops. Iris frowns, and swivels on her stool to face her friend. “What is it?” She asks, making her voice gentle. For all that she’s been lost in her thoughts and troubles, Linda is her friend. The worried crease between Linda’s brows makes Iris’s heart twinge with concern. “You can tell me anything, you know that.”

Linda nods, a bob of her head while her eyes focus on a patch of rug between them. She licks her teeth and then visible steels herself, straightening her shoulders and looking Iris straight in the eye. “Iris, I really like your brother.”

Iris bites back her immediate reaction, which is to laugh and say, ‘no kidding’. But she takes in how nervous Linda looks, how her eyes flit away and then back to examine Iris’s reaction, how she wrings her hands and bites her lips. So, Iris stands, and reaches out to hold both of Linda’s hands. “You do?”

“He’ll be a knight, not a royal, once his training’s complete. And I know I’m still just a servant, and maybe nothing will happen, and maybe he doesn’t like me either-”

“Linda,” Iris says, squeezing her hands to stop her rambling. “Linda, you precious woman, our family does not care about class when it comes to you. We adore you. And, most importantly, so does Wally. This is not news to anybody, but I am glad you told me.”

“It isn’t?”

“Oh, did you-” Iris stops, teases, “Did you two think you were subtle?”

Linda rolls her eyes, but the apples of her cheeks tinge pink and Iris can tell she’s secretly pleased. “Shut up.”

“Really, though,” Iris says again. “I am glad you told me.”

“You’re the first person I wanted to tell,” Linda admits. Then she frowns at herself. “Well, apart from Wally. Oh gods, do I have to tell Wally?”

“With most people I’d probably say yes,” Iris says, quite seriously. “But I think you’re good. I’m pretty sure Wally asked our dad for our grandmother’s engagement ring when he saw you calm a wild horse and shout at its owner for poor treatment.”

The slight colour on Linda’s cheeks blossoms to bright red, and Iris can’t help but laugh. She pulls her lifelong friend into a tight hug. Before she can say anything else, though, there’s a knock on the door, and they pull apart. Iris’s previous nervousness comes back in a rush, and she busies herself by straightening her dress and tiara as Linda goes to open the door.

Barry stands on the other side, and Iris has to make sure her mouth doesn’t just plop open at the sight of him.

He’s in black, but with red and gold trimmings and a cravat, the colours of their territories combined. His hair sticks up a little - he’s clearly been running his hands through it in between leaving his servants and coming to see her, and the thought sets her at ease, that he’s as nervous as she is.

She walks closer and wordlessly reaches up to comb the stray pieces back down. His eyes don’t leave hers, just the hint of a curve on his lips, as her hand falls back down to her side. He swallows, and for a moment she thinks he’s going to say something, something momentous and heavy, but he only turns to offer his arm. “Shall we go?” he asks, just the hint of smile at the curve of his lips. “The ball awaits, Princess.”

“My pleasure, Prince,” she says, dipping her head in a small curtsy.

He’s obviously chosen to ignore their kiss (and doesn’t even the memory of it make her feel alight?) which is what she was hoping for. Really. She’s  _not_  disappointed, she was just preparing herself for a confrontation, and she’s, quite frankly, glad it isn’t occurring.

They walk through the corridors in silence, and make it to the ball. “Wells is in the ballroom,” he whispers, just before they enter, and she makes herself focus on the content of his words rather than the way they brush against her ear. “Should we avoid him?”

“Let’s see if we can talk to him,” Iris says. The thrill of an investigation at least manages to distract her from her impending husband-meet-ex-suitor issue.

She’s not wholly sure what their plan is even if they do get Wells to confess - ideally they’d want more witnesses, since she’d like it not to come down to their word against his. Either way, she hopes that tonight, perhaps they can finally pin the person behind Nora’s death, and give the Allen men some kind of closure.

As they walk closer to the hall, in silence, Iris’ thoughts reach a new destination: if Nora’s killer is revealed, then there will no longer be any need for Barry and Iris to remain married.

Distrust will be officially put to rest – though there will still be quivers of prejudice, public opinion will be ultimately altered. The unity expression by the West-Allen marriage will be null and void, especially if they implement those trade agreements Iris had been planning.

She’s not sure why that thought makes her stomach twist anxiously. She should be relieved – they can end this farce a few years earlier than expected. But as her eyes flicker to Barry, the thought of not seeing him every day – even at never seeing him again – makes her want to throw up.

They wait at the entrance doors to be announced, and Iris’s hand tightens where it’s curled around Barry’s elbow. He looks down with a question already on his face, but there’s no time for him to voice it. There’s barely a moment’s wait before the servants open the doors, and a man’s voice calls their names out to the room: “Prince and Princess West-Allen!”

They walk down the huge stairs, a beautiful marble structure that Iris has always feared falling down. She tries to settle her ridiculous nerves, and she keeps her eyes fixed on the horizon.  

But in doing so, they catch on a familiar face:  _Eddie_.

Most people’s attentions are fixed back to the staircase - Wally will be coming through soon, which is far more exciting to all the prospective bachelorettes who are clueless as to how unavailable Wally actually is.

But Eddie’s eyes never leave hers.

He’s as handsome as she remembers, his blue eyes boring into hers through the crowds of people. His blonde hair is combed back perfectly, and the periwinkle blue suit he wears compliments his irises perfectly. She feels her heart race, but in nervousness more than anything. She’d imagined this moment for so long, in so many different ways. In distant dreams, she’d run to him, and he’d catch her, and they’d be happy. But like all dreams, he had been faceless, the details unimportant. Here, she could map every feature of his unreadable expression.

She tears her gaze away - she’ll have to talk to him later. Barry’s firm forearm underneath her gloved palm keeps her grounded.

Thinking of Barry, she looks up, sees how the warm light illuminates the freckles she’s wished to count, and how his green eyes look down to her like he’d sensed her stare. Her breath catches in her throat as they hold each other’s’ gaze, as if she’s back in that alcove, losing her mind in his lips and his touch.

She’s going mad – that must be it.

Some people have already started dancing in the middle of the ballroom, and jovial music plays. They turn to watch as her brother is announced: he looks nervous, having the spotlight on him. Iris is, of course, supportive of her little brother, though she can’t help but remember all the times he teased her for looking like a fish out of water in the same circumstances.

She sees many other people she recognises, like Lord Palmer, and both Lady Lances, and even Lord Queen, dancing with a blonde woman Iris recognises as Felicity.

 

Barry opens his mouth to say something, expression tense, but then Iris spies Harrison Wells himself. He is dancing with his daughter, their relation obvious from their matching blue eyes. She tugs on Barry’s arm. “Ask me to dance,” she hisses out of the corner of her mouth.

 

“What?” he asks, pulled out of his own thoughts. “Oh.  _Oh,_  uh, Iris, shall we dance?” He extends his other arm gracefully, and she daintily accepts it.

He twirls her into the centre of the room, into the throng of already dancing couples. They’re lucky it’s a simple song that doesn’t require much footwork - Iris knows there’s some songs from Starling Kingdom that require three years of learning and a bow and arrow for some ungodly reason.

But unfortunately, it’s also a rather intimate dance, and requires, rather than the usual, safe, distance protected by rigid arms, Iris to put one hand on his shoulder while one of his curls right around her waist to pull them flush together.

Iris tries to watch Wells, but he only seems to be dancing with his daughter – she can’t imagine he’s going to do anything nefarious for at least the next few minutes, and Barry must agree for all the attention he pays Wells.

She realises he’s looking in the other direction a moment too late, his hand is just a smidgen too tense on her lower back and his jaw just a hint too stern.

“What is it?” she asks in concern.

He looks back to her, and opens his mouth to speak. But then he closes it again, and looks at her with an unreadable gaze. She can’t even begin to think what he’s trying to say, until they turn again, and she catches a flash of blue and blonde, and her stomach tightens.

She doesn’t know what to say. Nothing she can think of seems right for some reason, not ‘I won’t talk to him’ which is an obvious lie, nor ‘he won’t cause a scene’ because she can’t guarantee anything. She also, for some strange reason, feels – embarrassed of Eddie? Or that she at least wishes he weren’t here. Even deep in her bones she obviously wants to avoid the inevitable confrontation.

“Barry-” she begins, not even sure where the sentence was going to end, but he speaks over her.

“Iris, I need to,” he starts, then stops, as the song fades into an even slower one, and then can slow to almost a halt, just swaying enough to keep up appearance unless someone were to look too closely. “I have to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” she asks, low, just so that he can hear. Maybe he has some more ideas about talking to Wells. “What is it?”

But as she watches him, watches his expression become almost helpless, her gut begins to flutter with the sense that something is about to drastically change her world.  

“I know- I know you’re in love with Sir Thawne.” Her heart jolts at the mention, though not necessarily in a pleasant way. “And I know this marriage is just an arrangement. And I’ll go, if you want, and I’ll be polite and I’ll show up to events and whatever you need. The arrangement will be intact, I promise. But, I just need to tell you.”

She can’t speak, can’t do anything but look up at him as his deep green eyes gaze down at her.

“Iris,” he says, as if gathering his strength, and she’s lost in him. “I am hopelessly in love with you.”

She can’t breathe.

“I think some part of me has always loved the idea of you, the princess I was supposed to marry and the person my father would occasionally tell me about. But,” he shakes his head softly, pressing his lips together and then letting them go. “But nothing prepared me for the reality of you. I’m not asking for anything - except maybe I am, I don’t know. I don’t know what this marriage is anymore, not when we’ve seen each other at our worst and our best, not when I wake up with you and talk to you and I never want to stop. Not when we kiss each other like  _that_.“

He searches her face, but she has no control over, quite honestly,  _any_  of her limbs, so she doesn’t know what he finds.

He swallows, and says, “I love you. And I don’t whether that’s enough, but I figured that I should at least be able to tell my own wife that I love her.”

“Barry-” she breathes, but what can she possible say to that? What can she say to those bottomless eyes?

“May I cut in?”

They startle at the voice, having completely forgotten they existed in a world other than their own.

It’s Wells, smiling at Iris just enough to be charming, but no more than that. He holds out his hand, knowing it would be very impolite indeed to deny the request.

She can’t miss this opportunity to talk to Wells, no matter how the ground might seem to be shattering beneath her. Not for the sake of Nora and Francine. She curtsies. “I’d love to.”

Barry’s hand only tightens around the one she still has in his, and she turns quickly to him as Wells steps forward. “Meet me where we first met,” she whispers urgently, before twirling into Wells’ arms, smiling cordially.

She puts Barry, and his words –  _‘Iris, I am hopelessly in love with you’_  - out of her mind as she dances with Wells, watching him as carefully as she can without appearing suspicious.

“It’s a lovely ball,” he comments, though it’s obvious he hates even his own attempts at small talk.

“It’s a lovely night,” she counters, and he quirks an eyebrow at the subliminal challenge, the slight edge to her tone.

“No pleasantries?”

“I don’t mind if you want to exchange them,” she says, her personal suspicions leaving her unable to contain the coolness of her words. She tries to temper her unproven anger, but with all other emotions whirling around her mind, she feels out of control and raw. “But it seems to me that you don’t.”

“You’re quite right, Princess.” They do a little footwork, briefly exchanging partners in the group dance before returning to each other. He purses his lips, as if gathering resolve, before finally asking, “I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

Her heart picks up speed, as if it hasn’t been through enough this evening. “If it is in my power, Lord Wells.”

“I was wondering if you might take in Jesse, as a knight in training.”

That stops her short. “Pardon?”

“My daughter,” he clarifies.

She shakes her head. “Yes, yes, I know who she is, but- you want her to be a knight?”

“Well, no, truthfully, I don’t,” he says, and he looks like he’s already been worn down by any argument she could possibly make. “But she does, and that’s what really matters, no matter how overprotective I might be.”

“You- you don’t have any royal ambitions?” she asks, perhaps a little crude in her questioning.

“Oh, goodness no. I hate diplomacy, and all that power. It only leads to bad things. I want to go home, and I want to invent things again.” He narrows his eyes. “Why do you ask? Have I ever hinted at that?”

Her mouth opens and closes, probably rather unattractively, before she says, “Where were you when Queen Allen was murdered?”

“Ah,” he says, and he doesn’t seem offended. “I see your line of thinking. I was there on the night of your mother’s attack as well - you and your husband have been playing detective, I presume. If you must know, I was with my own wife at the time. She was dying - we were at Central City for their doctors.”

“Oh,” she says. It’s a strong claim that could be easily proven wrong if were indeed a lie, which gives her every reason to believe it.

But he still doesn’t seem angry, or offended. “I know I don’t…ah, give off a particularly warm personality.”

But there’s still parts of the puzzle that don’t add up. “But why were you arguing with my father, if that was the only favour you wanted?”

He lets out a huff of an exhale as he spins her between other dancing couples. “I must admit that I have not been entirely… enthusiastic about Jesse’s ambitions. It’s why I was so displeased to see you practising swordplay on the lawns, I knew it was just the kind of sight that would encourage her. Still- I was imploring your father to grant Jesse’s  request.”

“But he wouldn’t,” Iris guesses. She frowns. “But what about the potion in…” She trails off as she realises she’s wondering aloud, and that there’s no good way to explain how she knows about the contents of his bag.

His eyebrows raise above his spectacles. “I’d heard about your infamous investigative skills, but you certainly are brazen about it, aren’t you?” Iris refuses the instinct to avert her eyes – no, it probably wasn’t ethically sound to snoop, but she’d do it again in an instant if it meant getting any closer to Nora’s murderer. He must see that in her expression, for he continues, “If you must know, that was  _not_  a poison, as I’m sure your active mind was wondering. It was a health remedy – I am not a good traveller. My stomach usually upsets itself after long carriage journeys.”

“Oh,” Iris says. Another reasonable explanation – and without those circumstantial clues, she has little reason to doubt Lord Wells. 

He seems calm as he says, “If you still have your doubts, you can ask Doctor Snow.”

“Caitlin?” Iris frowns.

“Her mother,” he replies easily. “She was there to pronounce my wife’s time of death.”

Iris feels cold all over. “I’m sorry-”

“Oh, don’t be.” He leads them in a spin, and says, quite calmly, “I’m sure I’d be looking for the culprit if my wife had been murdered rather than just taken from me too early.”

“No, I am sorry,” she says, firmly, not allowing him to forgive her suspicion so easily. “And I will be happy to take in Jesse. She’ll train with my brother himself.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I don’t want any favours on account of your guilt.”

“Then you can owe me a favour, if that makes you feel better,” she says, testing out a small smile and being pleased when his expression softens. “I’m sure the next invention you make, you’d love to showcase it exclusively in the West kingdom, wouldn’t you?”

He nods slowly, lips curling as if impressed at her. “Yes, I suppose I would.” His eyes catch on someone behind her, and his eyebrows raise. “I seem to have overstayed my time with the heir apparent, however. Thank you for your time, Princess West-Allen. I sincerely hope you do find who you’re looking for.”

With that, he steps away, keeping one hand with hers to then lift her arm and lead her in a neat spin. As she turns to face the other direction, she can’t help but be confused at who he could be talking about: she’d told Barry to go to the library, so she can’t understand why he’d still be-

But it’s not Barry. It’s Eddie.

“Sir Thawne,” she says, and her voice sounds oddly disappointed. She’d forgotten about him completely since last catching sight of him. She should be ecstatic, shouldn’t she?

“Princess West,” he says, breaking out into a smile. Instinctively, she wants to correct him, but she squashes down the petty thought.  

His affection seems obvious in the way he looks at her. She doesn’t know why she was so unsure all those weeks ago, why she’d twisted and turned so much over his words, his tone of voice, his gestures, looking for any clue of his feelings. But the thought doesn’t fill her with confidence, nor joy. The shine he’d once held in her eyes seems dull, his face ordinary and his voice unappealing.

He reaches for a dance, and she smiles, though it’s weak, and takes his hands. He pulls her close, and it makes her uncomfortable in a way it hadn’t with Barry.

“Your letters haven’t come through in a while,” Eddie says, almost teasingly. “Did you lose my address?”

“No, of course not,” she says, not even trying to play along with the joke as they step a little off beat to the music. “I- I didn’t know you were coming back so soon.”

A frown flitters across his face, the first sign he’s noticed her lack of enthusiasm. She tries to muster brightness, tries to stretch her grin. Why is she being so stupid? For months she’s dreamed of Eddie coming, of him dancing with her in public. She’d gone to sleep with his smile in her mind, and now she’s making it disappear in reality. “I wanted it to be a surprise. Are you not pleased?”

“Of course I am!” She hastens to say. “Of course, Eddie, it’s-”

“Please,” he cuts across her, glancing around to check no-one is listening (although there’s little doubt that everyone within a yard is trying to eavesdrop on the Princess and her former suitor). “Call me Sir Thawne in public, Princess.”

‘ _\- in love with you.’_

She realises Eddie has only confessed to liking her very much only through letters.

“I haven’t written to you in a while because I wasn’t sure what to say,” she admits. “So much has changed, Sir Thawne, and I…”

“I know things are a little different,” he says, and his smile is long gone now. She doesn’t think she can bear to look up at him, can bear to see the unease and confusion settling in that handsome face of his. She feels the twitch of his hand on her back. “But- our feelings for each other. They remain the same. Don’t they?”

She casts her gaze aside. It is ridiculous that she only realises the truth in that instant. That, no, her feelings have changed drastically and irrevocably.

_‘Iris, I am hopelessly-’_

She licks her lips, and braves herself. The least she could do is give him, and his kindness, and his patience, is the truth he deserves. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, and her vision is distorting a little from the water in her eyes. Some small part of her is horrified, that she’s throwing away everything she had wanted for so long. But how can she look him in the eye when she wishes the blue were green?

“You-” he presses his lips together, stops them in the middle of the dancefloor. “You don’t feel the same.”

“I thought I did,” she admits, quietly, praying the moisture in her eyes won’t spill over. “But I- I don’t think what we had was real. Maybe we would’ve been happy, if- I don’t know. But I can’t lie to you, or myself, any longer.”

He looks away. “I wish you hadn’t married him,” he says after a beat of tense silence, as if only to himself, having clearly guessed the source of her changed heart.  “I wish your father had never signed that damned piece of parchment.”

She can’t say the same.

“I’m so sorry,” she says again, because that’s all she can say.

He steels himself. “I’m sorry too, Princess West.” It looks like it takes great personal effort as he slowly takes her hand again, and bends down to kiss it. His lips rest on her knuckles just a moment too long, and she blinks quickly to stop any stray tears. No, she doesn’t love him, but she did care for him and some part of her probably always will. The thought of hurting him hurts her as well, no matter how much she knows she must do it.

He walks away, leaving her alone. She knows people are staring – let them.

_‘Iris-’_

Let them stare all they like: she has a husband to get to.

-

Her heart pounds as she leaves the ballroom. She has no speech planned, and no idea what on earth she’s going to say. But she needs to tell him the truth.

It has taken her far too long to realise it, and she aches to think of hurting Barry in her indecision. Hindsight is an embarrassing lens: she was blindingly jealous of Patty, not just angry at his lack of secrecy. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted to kiss him back, even before the alcove. Even still it seems impossible to pinpoint the moment she fell fast and hard for Barry Allen – all she knows now is that there’s no going back.

She strides quickly to the library, skirt whipping around her ankles in her haste to finally getting to express and finalise what’s been gathering in her mind and her heart for the last few weeks.

But while the library’s wall-hung torches are lit, the room itself is empty. “Barry?” She calls, ludicrously, as if he might be hiding behind the sofa. But there’s no-one here. The nervous fluttering of her pulse turns to thundering panic.

She notices there’s a piece of parchment, crumpled up as if inside someone’s fist, thrown haphazardly on the small coffee table in the centre of the room. Her pulse stutters in fear, mind racing through the possibilities of its contents.

She walks closer, wondering if she can even bear to read it. What could have happened in the few moments since she left him that he changed his mind? She’s not sure she can manage reading his goodbye, especially when she doesn’t understand what prompted it. Did he see her talking to Eddie? He must’ve thought the worst – how could she blame him? She should just chase after him instead of wasting time.

But as she opens the parchment up, she sees not Barry’s handwriting, but her own.

_Dear Sir Thawne,_

_You have to understand, please, that nothing holds me to Prince Allen more than a piece of paper. I can pretend to be nice to him. I can pretend that I don’t recoil at his touch, as we perform in front of strangers. I can pretend to care for him. But it is, and always will be, you_   _who I care for - I have for some time now, and I plan to for some time more. These few years will be hard, married to a stranger, but I know I can do it now that I have your support, your patience, and your care-_

The words stop there.

Iris remembers writing it, months ago, and crumpling the paper up, throwing it away. It was one of the drafts she had written the day after the wedding. It seemed too emotional even at the time, and it’s with hindsight that she knows why, that she knows she never really meant the words at all.

She realises her hands are trembling, clutching each side of the creased parchment, old enough that it has lost all its starched rigidity.

Her heart is beating far too fast.

Someone has added a different date to the top in similar ink, a good enough forgery that if she didn’t have her own memory, she might believe it was only written days ago.

The idea at Barry having to read this - when she hadn’t even gotten a chance to tell him how she really felt, how Eddie meant nothing to her, that she was so much younger and hadn’t realised the difference between kindness and commitment, between attraction and heady lust, between flying fancy and true love – makes her stomach twist painfully.

She lets out a gasp, a half-formed sob of panic. She doesn’t know why this is here, when she was so sure it belonged in the garbage with all the other drafts she had written, but she has to fix this. She has to find him.

She lowers the parchment, blinking away the dread watering her eyes, and sees something else on the table, glinting in the candlelight and unnoticed in her fear over the parchment. Barely breathing, she crouches, and picks up the small object.

At first she thinks it’s just a needle, left behind by a visitor, but as she holds it between her thumb and forefinger, she realises it’s a small key, golden and almost dangerously tiny.

No. The idea fluttering in her mind is impossible. It can’t be-

With her other hand, she holds her locket away from her chest and, so carefully, feels for the small hole she’s always known was there but could never figure out why. Fighting to control the way her fingers tremble, she inserts it, and hears the click as she turns it. The locket prises easily apart into two golden heart shapes. A bar of folded parchment is wedged there, old and fragile as she unfurls it.

_Yours until we meet, and after._

It’s messy, and awkward, as if a child wrote it. A tiny, almost meaningless letter.

But she knows, without really having any proof, that it’s Barry’s handwriting.

It prompts the hazy memory of opening a parcel when she was very young, and receiving the necklace. She’d always assumed it was from a relative, but she’d been too excited at the expensive gift (and excited to be finally able to wear adult jewellery like her mother did) that she hadn’t bothered with the letter than came with it. It must be kept somewhere, in some scrapbook. She doubts her father would’ve let something like that be thrown away - but that doesn’t matter now. How can it when the real Barry is so close yet so far away?

She whirls around; Barry can’t have gotten far. He’ll have to pack even if he is intending to leave, and ready a carriage. She can catch up with him-

There’s someone in the doorway.

At first, from the blue suit and the blonde hair, she thinks it’s Eddie, and she’s confused. But the split-second passes, and she recognises the man for who he really is: Eobard.

“Lord Thawne,” she says, quickly wiping away any evidence of her tears, embarrassed and uncomfortable in front of him. “I’m sorry, you can have the library to yourself, I was just-”

“Reading quite an important letter by the looks of it,” he finishes, stepping into the room. Something feels off.

She’s suddenly horribly aware of how alone she is, in both the room and this part of the castle. Everyone else is at the ball, and servants are told not to come to the library unless cleaning. She doesn’t step back, for fear of showing him how unnerving he is, but it’s a difficult instinct to quash.

“What does it say?” He persists.

“It’s nothing,” she says, but her casual tone is too stilted to be believable, and they both know it.

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, now, it doesn’t seem like nothing.”

A horrible suspicion creeps into her gut. “I received some bad news. One of our relatives is very ill.” She raises her chin, and walks forward, hoping her confidence will be enough to dissuade him from whatever plan is making his eyes gleam like that. “I must go see my father.”

“Iris,” he says, stopping her in her tracks before she can take more than two strides forward. They’re a few feet apart, but the distance certainly doesn’t seem far enough. He tilts his head, tauntingly. “Iris, I know what that letter says.”

“And how do you know that?” she counters in a cool tone.

He smiles. “Because I’m the one who paid one of your servants to fish it out of your disposal basket.”

She stills.

“The penny drops,” Eobard mocks.

Iris swallows down the rising fear. “You-” She stumbles over her words, can’t manage anything more than the repetition: “You.”  

“You were supposed to marry my nephew, Iris.” He begins to pace, just in a route between the sofas which wall them in. She chances a step back, making a desperate, hopeful kind of plan to try and run around the sofas to the door, which he’s currently blocking. “It was all going so well.”

That stops her. “Eddie. No- he was part of your plan?”

“Oh, he didn’t know, don’t worry. He just saw the pretty bait I dangled, and went for it. I don’t think he particularly cares whether you’re royal or not, which is,” he wrinkles his nose to think of the right word. “Disappointing.”

“You want to be in the royal family,” she guesses, not even bothering to frame it as a question.

“I  _should_  be in the royal family,” he counters fiercely. “My mother was going to marry into Central City. She was going to be a Princess, and I would be the first in line. But no, she was only a mistress.”

Iris can’t help her scorn, knowing how it will rile him. “So, you’re a bastard. You think that entitles you to anything?”

His jaw rotates tightly, but he doesn’t rise to the bait, still pacing, going back to his explanation. “You were supposed to marry Eddie. But then he decides to go play hero to one of his old war buddies, and leaves just before you’re eligible for marriage. Vastly irritating, but I couldn’t convince him to stay without being suspicious. Regardless, I had other people involved, so the plan wasn’t a total loss.”

“Stacy,” Iris says, thinking out loud as pieces start slotting into place.

He clicks his fingers at her, as if rewarding her correct guess. “Yes. The servant, the pretty one.”

“You bribed her?” He shakes his head, and she amends, “You blackmailed her. To kill my mother.”

“Unfortunate that she must have screwed up the recipe, despite my very explicit instructions.” He shrugs. “But she paid for that.”

“You  _murdered_  her,” Iris accuses, the memory of Stacy’s smile like a chokehold around her throat.

"You sound upset. She tried to kill your mother,” he counters as if genuinely confused.

“Because of  _you_!” Iris explodes. Finally, she has someone to blame for all the pain her family was put through. She’s tempted to start throwing things, or just try and strangle him with her bare hands, blind fury coursing through her. But she stays where she is, knowing she has to play this smart. And she can’t help the niggling part of her that argues, if he’s dead, she’ll never find out all the answers.

“Regardless, because she didn’t die, you didn’t play your part.” He shakes his head. “Very disappointing.”

“Pray,” she bites. “Tell me what I was supposed to do.”

“With your mother dead, it would be natural for you to blame the most obvious suspect. Henry Allen, notorious queen killer. You would declare war on Central City, too blinded by grief to anything else. And everyone knows Central City is a territory of intellectuals and liberals. They have no real military defence, no standing army or weapons. You’d crush them.”

“And then, according to your plan, I suppose I’d still marry Eddie,” she says, slowly, horror dawning on her as she realises how close they could’ve come to realising Eobard’s schemes. “And you’d be part of the family that controlled Central City and the West kingdom. Would you have stopped there?” She has to ask, has to know whether his terrible ambition would have ever been satisfied.

He cocks his head, and his smirk tells her all she needs to know, enough to make her feel sick. “I would’ve waited for you to produce some heirs,” he offers, as that is any kind of appeasement.

She never thought she could hate a person like this.

“You’re going to die in prison,” she promises, and she’s cold, and she wants him to know how much she means every word. “You’re not going to have a damn penny to your name.”

“We’ll see about that,” Eobard says, and he stops pacing to look at her. Ice trickles down her spine, like a rabbit must feel staring down a panther. “Because do you know where Barry is right now?”

She shakes her head, taking another step back.

“That’s right,” he says. “And no one else does either. So, I wonder who they’ll blame when they find your dead body.”

Her stomach curls and her pulse freezes. She shakes her head. “He’s my husband, they won’t-”

“His father murdered  _his_ wife, why wouldn’t he follow in _dearest_  daddy’s footsteps?”

Iris lets out a shaky breath, macabre jigsaw pieces fitting together. “You killed his mother, didn’t you?”

Eobard smiles, and its humourless. “My mother was your grandfather-in-law’s whore. I could’ve been an Allen. I could have made Central City into something great.”

“You would’ve ruined it,” she says, and she’s angrier and more scared than she’s ever been.

“But it would have been  _mine to ruin_ ,” he snarls.

And with that, he leaps for her. She races back to the wall where she knows a decorative sword has been kept for the past seventy-five years. She’s so close to reaching it when she’s grabbed from behind, fabric tearing as he pulls at her skirt.

She elbows back, feeling a bloody sense of satisfaction when she feels the bone connect, and she hears the crunch of his nose. He yowls, and she feels the hands on her loosen, and she jumps forward, pulling the sword off the wall with its fastenings and all.

Before she can even attempt any proper sword technique, she just swings at him. She doubts the blade will be sharp enough, which is confirmed when it only rips at his fabric across his chest rather than slicing through to the skin. But a blunt weapon is still better than no weapon at all.

He swings at her with his fist and she doesn’t duck in time – it lands squarely on her jaw, making her stagger back. She thought she had experience play-fighting with Wally, and in holding her own against the bandits, but this is nothing like either occasions. This is desperate and terrifying and there’s a very real chance she won’t survive it.

But no. She is  _not_  going to let this piece of shit kill her – she just isn’t. She won’t allow him to make anyone else mourn.

‘ _I am hopelessly-’_

She twists back with the hilt carrying the brunt of the force this time, and it smacks into his throat. Before he can recover, she kicks him solidly in the chest, and he goes flying back onto the table. It’s too good quality wood to break under his weight, but she doesn’t waste a second.

She darts forward, and brings down the sword as hard as she can – but he moves, almost too quick. The blade only just slices the side of his torso, forcing another yowl from him even as he rolls off the table. He lands on his feet, straightening and clutching the bleeding wound. The red is seeping through the blue fabric.

“Iris!” She hears the shout and makes the mistake of looking up to the doorway, where Wally is, looking upon them in horror.

That split-second is enough for Eobard to pull out another dagger and thrust at her. She moves just before it gets her throat, but it slices across her collarbone and past her shoulder. She gasps at the hot, sharp pain, and stumbles back.

Eobard advances on her, blood trickling from his grinning lip. Either he must not have heard Wally, or he just doesn’t care.

But Iris can see Wally. She can see her brother draw his own sword and not even hesitate as he runs forward, leaping forward onto the table and plunging the sword into Eobard’s back and out through his chest.

Iris drops her own sword in shock and raises her hands to her face as she lets out a silent scream.

Eobard’s smile never leaves his face, even as he falls forward to lie on the floor, immobile.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Iris gasps for air. Wally looks down at Eobard’s body. “Wally,” she says, voice cracking, reaching for him.

“He was going to kill you,” Wally says, and he looks at her with pleading eyes, as if she needs to forgive him, as if he needs her to say it’s okay for him to forgive himself.

“He was,” she says, the adrenaline making her stagger as she steps away from the body and towards her brother. His sword clatters to the floor as she grabs him into a hug. “He killed Nora Allen, Wally, and he tried to kill our mother. You- you did the right thing.”

Wally’s arms wrap around her and pull her close, squeezing the breath out of her. Then he abruptly lets go, which she can’t work out the reason for until he stoops to examine the cut across her collarbone.

It’s still bleeding a little, but Wally rips at his sleeve, which is a sight Iris faintly thinks Linda would be sorry to miss, and presses the fabric firmly against the wound. “It’s fine,” Iris says, though it’s probably the adrenaline that’s stemming the pain. “He barely scratched me.”

“He did more than that,” Wally disagrees, eyes flicking up to catch on her jawline – she remembers Eobard hitting her, and she rotates her jaw, wincing at the ache that emanates from the movement.

“It’s fine,” she says again. “Come on, we need to go find Father and Mother, we need to explain…” She trails off as she realises he’s still staring at her collar, frowning. “What?”

“Your locket,” he says, twisting his lips in dismay. “He must have broken it, or something. It’s open, Iris.”

“Oh.” Her adrenaline spikes again, the moments before Eobard’s entrance crashing back into her mind. “No, it was Barry.”

“What?”

“Barry gave me the locket, he sent it when we were young,” Iris says, eyes fixed on the original letter discarded on the floor beside the table. “Eobard tricked Barry. Or, he convinced him I loved Eddie, I need to-”

“Wait, wait,” Wally says, bobbing his hands to slow her. “You mean you’ve finally realised you don’t love Eddie?”

She’ll be annoyed that her brother apparently knows her better than herself later. “Yes, and now Barry’s gone! I need-”

But before she can finish that sentence, a scream carries through the air, and they spin to see a maid in the doorway, having dropped her cleaning rags to cover her face as she stares in horror at Eobard’s body.

“We probably need to deal with that first,” Wally says, tiredly, as the maid runs away.

-

It takes a few hours to sort things out. Iris repeats everything as best she can first to her father, and then to Singh. Lastly, though she can barely bear to look him in the eye, to Henry.

They haven’t taken Eobard’s body away yet, so they’ve moved to the war room – apparently, her father has gone to tell Eddie in another room. Iris is glad she isn’t there for that conversation. This one is awful enough.

Henry doesn’t flinch as she tells him, only Wally and a few advisors in the room. “He said he was going to blame Barry for my- my murder,” she swallows, the recounting no less painful on the third attempt. She finally steels herself to look Henry in the eye for the next part, knowing he deserves it. She sees his eyes are glistening, though the rest of his expression is impassive, and she thinks he’s already worked it out. “Henry- he said he murdered Nora.”

Henry takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. She aches to reach for him, but she doesn’t know whether he’d want her to.

“I need to talk to Barry,” he says. Of course - Barry needs to hear the news from his father. Iris, and whatever she’s going to say, can wait, no matter how desperate she feels. “Where is he?”

So, she tells him the truth. She licks her lips, searching for the right way to explain it all. “Eobard twisted things. He- he made Barry think I didn’t… Even though I think I do…” Words fail her. She doesn’t even know how to tell Barry how she feels, let alone his  _father_.

Henry’s head tilts a little, and she realises he’s looking at her necklace, which she’s fiddling with in her anxiety. She quickly looks at her lap as he asks, “So, whatever Eobard convinced my son of, that’s not true?”

She shakes her head. She doesn’t know what she’s expecting his reaction to be. She wouldn’t blame him if he were to be cross at her, or if he didn’t think she was worth his son after all this fuss. But when her gaze flickers up, she sees something very different. He looks a little smug, and a lot proud.

If she had to name it, she’d say it’s the kind of expression a parent might have when their twenty-year-old prediction comes true.

“Iris,” he says, gently. “Why don’t you go after my son?”

Her mouth opens and shuts, before she says, “You should be the one to tell him, I- he might not even want to see me.”

He lets out a little huff. “Oh, I sincerely doubt that.”

“I don’t know where he is,” Iris adds.

“I’m sure you’ll find him,” Henry assures. “It’s you he’ll want to talk to. Besides, I’m going to stay here and help your parents sort all this out.”

“Will you be okay?” asks Iris.

A dark look passes over his face, so quick that Iris is almost unsure she even saw it. “Eobard owes me a lot of things,” he says, eventually. “And getting to be there when they name him a murderer officially will be a small victory, but one I need to be here for.”

She nods, and turns to her brother. “Wally, are you-”

“Just  _go_ ,” he urges, rolling his eyes. “Stop talking and just go!”

“Right.” She stands, takes a step forward, and then leans over to quickly press a kiss to Wally’s head. He waves off her affection, as little brothers are prone to do, but he’s smiling as she darts away.

Like she said earlier: she has a husband she needs to talk to.

-

She races to Barry’s bed chambers - though she has little hope that he’ll still even be on the castle grounds it’ll be the best place to look for clues of his direction. She’s sure that he would’ve come running as soon as he heard about Eobard if he had been in gossip vicinity.

She whirls around the doorframe, breathing heavily and skirt swishing with the momentum. There’s someone here, and her heart leaps before she recognises he’s too short and has too dark hair to be Barry.

Cisco startles at her appearance. “Princess! What-” his eyes shift guiltily, and her eyes narrow in suspicion. “Uh, what are you doing here?”

She puts her hands on her hips as she takes in the scene: Cisco, folding clothes and objects into a case, obviously collecting Barry’s things on his orders. “Cisco,” she says, flatly. “Tell me where he is.  _Now_ ,” she adds, when he seems to be valiantly attempting to stay silent and looking anywhere else but her.

“Okay, you should know, I’m just-”

“ _Cisco._ ”

He sighs. “He’s at The Rogues Inn. He’s booked a room out, and I was supposed to bring his stuff. But he told me not to tell you-!” His voice carries but she’s already whirling around and down the corridor.

The Rogues Inn isn’t too far from the castle, a business venture from a reformed criminal gang a few years ago. It’s just pricey enough to keep the less-savoury characters out, but it’s not fussy on who it allows to board there as long as they can pay.

Iris maintains a quick pace through the castle grounds and out into the town. Some people stare at her, and she only realises, halfway there, that she must look a crazed sight, still in her ballgown and bruised and bleeding. Probably she should have checked her hair before she started hunting Barry down, but it’s too late to worry about that now.

She eventually reaches the Inn, and takes a moment to smooth down her skirt and shake out her hair from its intricate pattern, letting it hang loose as the stylish up do must be done for by this point.

She takes a deep breath. What on earth is she planning to say, exactly? She doesn’t have any kind of speech prepared, or any words to express herself. She almost wishes she could write it all down – but look where writing letters had gotten them.

She ignores the strange looks she gets as she enters, and marches straight to the bar.

“What can I do for you?” The woman behind the bar asks, towelling off a glass and a shade too casual not to be deliberate.

Iris smiles sweetly. “I’d like to know which room you gave to my husband.”

The woman presses her lips together, staring with far too much attention at the dirty glass. “I don’t-”

“Just-” Iris interrupts sharply, then calms herself. “I’ve had a long day. Please, just give me the room number.”

“He told me not to tell anyone who might be looking for him,” the woman says, side-eyeing Iris.

“I’m sure he did,” Iris says, and if this were any other time, she’d admire the woman’s loyalty. “But it would save us both time if you could just tell me which door I should be knocking on, rather than making me interrupt every one of your guests.”

The woman appraises Iris, and must see how serious she is because she sighs, and says, “He’s in the top floor, room forty-two.”

Iris nods politely. “Thank you.”

She makes her way up the three flights of stairs and down the corridor. It’s the furthest door, and Iris steels herself as she reaches it. She’s just going to tell him about Eobard, and then tell him her truth. So why does it seem the hardest thing she’s ever had to do?

But she knocks, ignoring her racing pulse, rapping her knuckles hard on the wood. The few seconds before any response seem to drag on forever, but eventually, she hears a sound on the other side, and the door swings open.

“Thanks, Cisco, I-”

It’s only been a few hours since they were last together (although doesn’t it feel far longer?), but her heart swells at the familiar sight of him, the way his clothes are rumpled and his hair is messy, the way his green eyes startle at the unexpected sight of her, the way she just wants to sink into his embrace.

“Iris,” he says, and she watches as his gaze shutters, closes off. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you,” she says, hesitant in a way she hasn’t been with him for so long.

He searches her face for a long moment, before exhaling, turning his body in silent permission. She takes it, takes whatever she can get at this point, and walks in. The room is bare apart from the furnishings provided by the inn, and she’s glad.

The hallway was dim, with only a few torches lit, but the room is much lighter. She can tell, because as she turns to look at Barry, his back to the recently closed door, he flinches as if he’d been hit himself. His eyes widen in shock, and he starts towards her, having taken in her battered appearance. “ _Iris_! Are you okay? What-” He visibly stops himself, and she aches at the thought of his uncertainty. “What happened?”

That’s the best opening she’s going to get to explain things, and she gives him a weak smile. “You never trusted Eobard Thawne, did you?”

Barry’s eyes harden, and his fists curl. “He hurt you? Where is he?”

“Dead,” Iris says, watches him blink in shock. This is a lot to process, and she’s hardly making things easy for him. She takes a deep breath, and explains, “Eobard wanted to control our kingdoms. He thought he was entitled because his mother had an affair with your grandfather or something. He was the one behind my mother’s attack.”

She struggles with the next part more than she thought she would, and she blinks away the moisture that threatens to spill from her eyes. She steels herself; Barry deserves to hear this.

“Barry, he’s the one who killed your mother.”

The only sign he’s even heard her is the tightening of his jaw. She moves towards him, instinctively reaching out, and he flinches. She stops, feeling her heart break.

“He attacked you?” he finally speaks, and she nods.

“He wanted to blame you for my murder,” she explains, remarkably neutrally. He doesn’t need her emotions when he needs to process his own. “I fought him, and then Wally killed him. They’re sorting it all out back at the castle – your father’s there. You should come back, I’m sure he wants to talk to you-”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he interrupts. He looks away, and she wishes she could read his expression, even that she could read his mind.

“Why not?

He finally glances up, those bottomless green eyes. “I can talk to my father separately, Iris. Look, let’s not- if you don’t want me near you, I understand. Especially after this, after he attacked you to get at me, and you never asked for this-” He forcibly stops himself, running a hand through his hair in stress. “I should have been there for you. I should have faced him, I should have  _protected_  you. You shouldn’t-”

“Barry,  _please_ ,” her voice cracks. “That’s not why I’m here- of course I don’t blame you.”

“You should,” he says, and she can actually hear the self-hatred in his voice. “I shouldn’t have even said anything tonight. I should have been there.”

“I’m  _glad_  you said something,” she replies emphatically.

But he’s shaking his chin, just minutely, and she realises it’s now or never. She has to tell him the truth.

She takes a deep breath, forcing back the moisture that threatens to blur her vision, and she says, “Barry, I  _love_ you.”

She’s not sure what she’s expecting his reaction to be exactly, but she definitely didn’t think it would be to take a step away, shaking his head more vigorously, and say, “No, you don’t.”

She frowns. “Yes, I do. Barry, I’m in love-”

“Stop!” He exclaims over her, before taking a deep, shaky breath. “Just stop it, okay, you don’t have to. I saw the letter.”

“It wasn’t-” she tries but he continues speaking.

“I’ll stay with the marriage, you don’t have to lie, alright? That’s worse. We’ll go to the same events. The arrangement doesn’t have to change because of me-”

With that, she realises: he thinks she’s just saying it so he’ll come back.

“The letter wasn’t from that date,” she says, weakly, as if that detail has any power at all. “Eobard, he added it as a forgery.”

But she can see the truth his mind concludes at. “But you still wrote the rest of the letter.”

Her heart squeezes painfully. “Yes. I did.”

He looks away, expression dull. Her words and her actions have cost him his confidence and her credibility. How else can she convince him? She knows what she wants to express, knows what she feels in her heart when she looks at him. Like a dam has been broken, her feelings, now acknowledged, are here to stay, and they cannot be hidden anymore.

But with those empty eyes so usually full of light looking at her, she doesn’t know what the right words are.  “Look, Barry, what I said in that letter, I meant it at the time. I didn’t care for you particularly – I mean, I barely knew you!”

She didn’t think it possible, but his face shutters further. “Exactly. Thanks for running down here to confirm it, I suppose.”

“No, that’s not-” She makes a cross noise, frustrated with herself. “I don’t know how to say it, okay? I don’t know how to make you believe me, I just know you have to.”

He rubs his hand across his jawline, turning away before finding his words. “You seemed to be pretty good with your words in that letter.” His tone is wooden, and perhaps how easily he’s accepting her rejection rather than her declaration is the hardest part of all this.

“But maybe that’s just it!” she exclaims. “That letter reads so easily because it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just words. I liked Eddie, and maybe we would’ve been married, and  _maybe_  we would’ve been content. But, Barry,  _you_ ,” she swallows past the thick lump in her throat. “You make me feel safe, and stupid, and happy, and like I can’t think straight. I liked Eddie, but I’m in love with  _you_.”

He’s looking at her and it doesn’t seem to be enough. She can still see the shadow of doubt in his expression.

“Barry,” she says, taking a step closer so the distance closes. “I wrote to Eddie, yes. But I don’t want to ever write letters to you, because I never want to be apart from you that long. I want to wake up beside you each morning and go to sleep with you each night. I want you to know I love you because I tell you  _every day_ , not because I’ve written it down in a letter.” She lets out a weak exhale of a humourless laugh, letting her hands raise and fall in a gesture. “So here it is, Barry Allen, day one: I love you.”

He’s close enough to touch now, but she still can’t read his expression or his swirling eyes. He steps closer so that she has to tilt her face up to keep eye contact. His hands reach for hers and then gently raise them so, without his eyes leaving her face, he can kiss her knuckles. Her breath catches in the silence of the room.

Her tongue runs over her suddenly dry lips, the intimacy of the moment palatable. “Most ladies prefer to have their hands shaken,” she breathes, harking back to when they had first met, before she even knew his name or what he would mean to her.

“You, Iris West,” he replies, letting go of her hands to cup her jaw with both palms. “Are more than most ladies.”

And with that, he leans down to kiss her. It’s a light press but it means more than any other touch they’ve shared. He pulls away just enough that he can speak. It takes her a moment to re-open her eyes.

“I love you too,” he says, so quietly it’s a whisper, a breath shared between them. “So much, Iris. I always will.”

And she’s out of words to express the wild glow filling her entire body, so she does the only thing, really, at her disposal: she rushes forward, and she kisses him back.

He responds instinctively, with his thumbs digging into the hollow behind her ears and his lips pressing forward just as enthusiastically. Her hands curl in his shirt to pull him close, flush against her torso and crotch. While the buckle of his belt may be a little uncomfortable as it digs into her, the gratifying bulge definitely makes up for it. She lets out a little whimper as his tongue curls into her mouth.

She needs to prove to her still shaking pulse that he’s here and he’s never leaving her again. Her fingers seem to agree with the sentiment on a journey of their own as they curl up to his collar and start moving their way back down, unbuttoning his shirt as they go. Bare, warm, flushed skin is revealed inch by inch, though she’s too busy with his God-given lips to appreciate the view. She makes her way all the way down to his navel, brushing against the faintest hint of a trail of hair, until the top falls free into two pieces, untucked from his breeches.

Barry pushes her hair to one side so he can kiss her neck, starting at a spot on her ear that evokes a full-body shudder from her and lightly sucking his way down to her collarbone, surely leaving marks. The thought makes excitement pool in her belly, and her head rolls back as he moves back up, brushing his lips underneath her chin before catching her lips again.

She palms his chest and reaches for the top of his shirt, pushing it back over his shoulders. He lets go of her just long enough to help her shake his arms loose of the newly evil cloth.

And then he’s shirtless. She leans back so she can see him properly, can put an image to the shape her hands have been eagerly mapping. Her fingers don’t stop moving across his skin, skirting his shoulders and biceps and ribs. All the other times he had been undressed near her, she had turned away, telling herself she was affording him his privacy. And sure, that was part of the reason – but seeing him now, vulnerable to her, she knows that seeing him like this would have been a sight she couldn’t have come back from. She realises that perhaps she’s been appraising him for too long, and she looks up to meet his steady gaze; but she reads it in an instant, and sees that he’s just as aware of the importance of this moment as she is.

“Iris,” he croaks, and she’s back in his arms with renewed fervour.

They walk backwards in shuffling steps, too entwined to be graceful or particularly efficient in travelling the distance. But eventually they make impact, as the back of Barry’s calves hit the wooden skeleton of the bed. He topples backwards to sit, legs spread just wide enough for Iris to stand between. He’s looking up at her like she’s a goddess, and it fills her with power.

Wordlessly, she reaches behind her to tug at the single bow that holds her fastenings tight. With one pull, the whole dress loosens. Barry’s pupils are blown wide enough to make the irises seem black as she lets the fabric drop to her feet, leaving her in just some silk shorts for underwear.

His hands reach carefully up to rest on her thighs, and she shivers a little at the sensation of his thumbs stroking her bare skin. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes.

She realises she feels like a queen under his gaze, for the first time in her life. Eddie had always treated her like a princess, which she admittedly is, but one that was young and polite and pretty. Barry holds her like she’s precious, but not carefully. Like if she does break he’ll still be there to hold all the pieces. It’s at once the greatest relief and the greatest thrill.

The thought enables her next move. She pushes at his shoulders so he falls onto the mattress, and climbs on top of him, capturing his lips again in a mind-melting kiss. She could never have imagined she could be so confident in bed – but that’s not quite right. It’s more than she’s confident in  _Barry_ , that he’d catch her if she tripped, that he’d still love her even if she was terrible.

Lost in the movement of his lips, it’s perhaps no surprise that he manages to surprise her as he grabs behind her thighs and rolls them both over so he’s above her.

“Iris,” he says, in between kisses, and she’s probably going to flush every time he says her name from now on. “Wait, Iris.”

And that stops her – she falls back so her head rests properly on the bed, and her hand falls lax from where it had been scratching through his hair. “Do you want to stop?” she asks.

He shakes his head so quickly she’s surprised he doesn’t injure himself. “No, no – of course not. But- do you? Are you sure?” He’s resting on his forearms and hovering above her, not enough to be heavy but just enough that she feels the heat radiating from him.

She knows why he’s asking, of course. Their original agreement, in private words, relied on the lack of consummation to be used for the divorce papers later. But that was when their divorce was considered inevitable, their relationship considering fake. And now, Iris considers a life without Barry in it completely unfathomable. The hormones coursing through her right now might be lethal, but she’s known it for a while now, deep down despite her own incredible skills of denial.

She loops her wrists behind his neck, and makes sure her voice is steady when she says, “Barry, I want to consummate this marriage.” He blinks, and she adds, for good measure, “I want you to make love to me.”

His mouth parts as the words register, and then he’s kissing her with renewed spirit, with enough force to take her breath away. He presses into her with every inch of his body, and she actually, embarrassingly, gasps out loud at the feel of him against her groin, gratuitous with such little fabric separating them.

Speaking of fabric separating them – as he moves to her neck again, working on a particularly sensitive spot underneath her jaw, she reaches down to undo his belt and pull it out from his breech loops. She flings it somewhere, and hears the distant sound of it landing on the wooden floorboards.

But before she can continue her plan, he repositions his weight and entwines his fingers through hers, pulling both her hands to rest on the pillow above her head. She curves up with her pelvis, trying to regain the close contact, but he rises to kneel between her legs, trailing his hands down her outstretched arms and down her chest. He tweaks at her nipples with his thumbs, before leaning down to kiss and suck and nip a path around her right nipple, rolling the other to making Iris gasp and writhe underneath him.

She can feel his smile against her skin, which is possibly more erotic than it should be, and he moves further down, kissing a path down her stomach and to the hem of her undergarment. He looks up for silent permission – as if she could possibly say anything other than ‘yes, please, hurry up’ at this point – and then he curls his thumbs underneath the silk to pull it down, past her thighs and knees and ankles to throw it somewhere over his shoulder.

There’s no time for her to even consider feeling self-conscious – in the next second, he’s pressing his lips in a firm kiss against her clit. She lets out a little whimper, which apparently encourages him to lick one long path along her folds, and then curl his tongue into her. One hand grips her ass to pull her leg over his shoulder, and the changed position allows him to go deeper inside her.

She’s never done this before – never done anything like it, apart from a little to herself. She’s heard filthy limericks and hushed gossip about the act, she’s seen prostitutes and adulterers and sleazy nobles. She always expected to feel a little dirty about her first time, sure it could never be the pure act the religious folk would paint it as. But it’s neither pure nor sordid. It’s a connection, a way of tying herself to someone in the most human way. Barry inserts a long finger into her, timed perfectly with the gut-clenching movement of his mouth, and she groans in ecstasy. This is perfect.

She realises she’s chanting his name around the same moment she’s nearing the precipice. He adds another finger, pumping slowly but surely in and out of her. “Gods, Barry,” she gasps, back arching and hands clawing and clutching the bed sheets.

“I love you so much,” Barry says as he adds another finger, and it’s so far from a dirty phrase that it’s a little ridiculous that it’s what makes her clench up and bite back a scream, hurtling into blissful orgasm.

She lets out a long breath as it fades, and Barry’s moving to crawl back up her. “Nuh-uh,” she says, eloquently, and even wags her finger weakly for good measure. He looks concerned for the second it takes before she points to his breeches. “Off,” she commands. (Barry Allen has apparently the talent to make her brain melt from her ears – though perhaps that doesn’t need to make it into the official royal biography.)

His lips quirk in a smile, and he leans back to stand, reaching for the final fastenings of his trousers. “As the Princess commands,” he teases.

She was honestly going to reply, but then his breeches fall to his ankles, leaving him completely naked, and she’s a little speechless. Underneath his firm abdomen stands a long, pretty-looking penis. He leans back over her, but she’s still curious and interested enough to push him over onto his back so she can straddle his thighs. He groans, head slamming back to the mattress, as she curls a hand around his shaft, and pulls tentatively.

 There’s not enough lubrication for her hand to move all that smoothly, even when she rubs her thumb over the beaded tip, which is  _definitely_  the reason for why she leans down to take the head into her mouth. “Iris,” Barry says, and his voice cracks, and she’s never heard her name sound like  _that_ , like she’s breaking him apart and putting him back together all at the same time. Encouraged, she bobs her head down to take a little more in – though her gag reflex halts her from going further, she twists her tongue against him and revels in the groan it elicits.

He’s breathing heavily above her, and actually sits up as if shocked when she sucks tentatively. “Iris,” he says, sounding a little pained. “You- not that I don’t appreciate- I mean, you have to stop if we want to actually consummate, is what I’m saying.”

She lets him go with a smile, glad that, though his smooth moves so far have been extremely appreciated, he can still have his moments of adorable awkwardness. She moves to sit more fully on his lap. She comes close enough to his dick that he rubs along her folds, and they both let out gratified sounds at the sensation.

Still sat up, he curls his arms around her, supporting her back. “How do you…” she says, trailing off and hoping her meaning is clear.

“Any way you’ll have me,” he says, and she thinks that maybe that wasn’t supposed to come out so honest by the flush that highlights his cheekbones. Comments like that still manage to disarm her, no matter what else they’ve shared, and she quickly leans in to kiss him lightly, cupping his cheeks and thanking the universe for matching them.

“Like this?” she suggests against his lips, and she grinds down to emphasise the benefits of it.

His arms tighten around her, and he scrapes his teeth against her bottom lip before capturing her in a fierce kiss. “You’re absolutely sure you want to?” he asks when he pulls away, and his integrity when seconds away from a vagina is really quite commendable.

“I’m sure of you,” she answers, honestly.

His eyes soften, and he helps her kneel a little off his lap so she can position herself. He holds his dick firm as she lowers herself carefully onto him.

They let out a shared, punched out breath as he enters her. She rests her arms on his shoulders for support, and the fit is a little uncomfortable at first. His hands wrap around her lower back, holding her close as she adjusts. “You okay?” he murmurs.

She nods, and pushes back up a little, testing her limitations. When she falls back down on him, a rush of pleasure emits through her and she gasps. Barry looks concerned, and she shakes her head. “’S good,” she explains as she leans forward to kiss him a little sloppily.

Together, they manage to establish a rhythm; not quite slow, but steady. Admittedly, Barry ends up doing most of the work, though Iris does her best to use her thighs to move up and down on him. But the sensations are too much – she hides her face in his neck, panting against his equally-sweaty skin. She’s heady and hot and each thrust sends jolts through her. Judging from the bitten back groans from Barry, it’s as unbearably good for him as well. “Barry,” she exhales, and his hands twitch on her skin. “I’m-” She trails off and stifles a moan against his neck.

“Me too,” he says, and he thrusts up into her even more forcefully, and she whimpers, and he gasps, “Me too.”

It seems to simultaneously last an eternity and no time at all. He reaches down to rub at her swollen clit and they slam together faster and faster and she’s gone. Maybe she screams, maybe she’s silent, but she falls into him all the same, kissing him desperately as his thrusts speed up, erratic and bruising and perfect.

“ _Iris_ ,” he groans into her lips and he finishes, holding her steady as he empties into her. (She’ll have to make sure she sees Caitlin tomorrow for the much-needed contraceptive remedy.)

They’re still together, breathing harshly. Iris is beginning to recognise how she aches all over in the best ways, and she thinks her legs are probably stuck in this position.

“I love you, Barry Allen,” she says, wanting to laugh with the relief of saying it out loud.

His mouth breaks into a sweet smile, happy and content. “I love you too.”

He lifts her underneath her thighs and twists them, lowering her gently onto the bed. He carefully pulls out of her, reaching for the covers and quickly curling back around her as she makes a small sound of complaint at him leaving her even for a second. Their legs intertwine, and she rests on his chest, the heady smell of sex surrounding them.

She’s oddly glad they did this in a hotel room, away from the castle and all the reminders of the contract that brought them together. She wants this to be  _their_ victory, not the kingdoms’ or their crowns’. She presses a quick kiss to his pectoral muscle, and he pulls her closer, his arm curved around her.

“We should probably go back,” she whispers, as if speaking too loudly might break this little snippet of bliss. “There’s a lot to sort out back at the castle.”

“I don’t care,” he replies, and he pushes his face into her hair to tenderly kiss her scalp. And really, she can’t find it in her to argue, not when the blankets seem so heavy over them, and she’s so content to lie on him. She finds her eyelids are heavy, despite how alive she had felt just moments ago. Judging by the way Barry’s arms hold steady around her, she doesn’t think he’s particularly inclined to move any time soon either. But then she hears him say, quietly, “I only care that he’s dead.”

One hand reaches up to gently stroke her jaw – it takes her moment to remember the bruise that brands her there. She lifts her own hand to wrap around his wrist, stilling his movement. “He’s behind us now, okay? We can move on now, we can build something new.”

It takes a moment, and she searches his face for any sign of his reaction, but his jaw sets, and he nods. His hand twists in hers to intertwine their fingers and pull their linked hands to rest on his chest. “Together,” he says, like a promise.

“Together,” she agrees, and  _teamwork_ , she thinks.

 

-

_Four Years Later..._

-

 

 

A bird is singing outside her window, twittering with the mid-morning daylight. The air is warm and fresh even as it filters through onto her skin.

Lost in the moment, her arm raises gently and her fingers dance through the streams of light, fluttering between the particles that glow and float.

She’s alone in the bed chambers, bare feet comfortable against the woven rug beneath her. She faces a body-length mirror, examining herself in quiet reflection. The dress is beautiful, with a full skirt and a firm corset decorated in spiralling royal curls of jewels. Gold fabric and lace add to the ruby red, which will match the crown her father is to formally pass on to her head in just a few hours.

She should be nervous, and she’s standing here trying to work out why she isn’t. Why she’s calm, and content, and happy to listen and watch the glimpses of nature that touch her.

She hears the sound of the door opening, and she expects it to be Linda, probably here to try and do the final touches of Iris’s outfit and hair, despite being an official member of the West family now and certainly not Iris’s maid anymore.

But Barry walks into her viewpoint, reflected in the mirror. They’ve been married four years now, almost to the day, but the sight of him still makes her smile. “How are you feeling?” he asks to her reflection.

“You look handsome,” she says instead, which is certainly true.  He’s dressed in a matching suit, and his own monarch’s crown of Central City sits upon his head, having had his twenty-fifth birthday almost a year ago and therefore his coronation. Today will also mark the official joining of the two territories - it’s taken all this time to sort out the legal issues, but it’s finally happening. The West Kingdom will have Central City as its capital, and they’ve done as much to ensure their citizens will greatly benefit. Shared trade, ideas, and resources. No more prejudice between areas or people.

“You look far better,” he says, as easily complimentary as always, and he steps forward until he can curl his arms around her stomach and lean his chin on her shoulder. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m okay,” she says, At the scepticism in his face, she defends, “I really am! I think I’m more nervous about the fact I’m not nervous. If that makes any sense.”

He twists his lips. “Maybe it hasn’t hit you yet.”

She smiles and twists in his arms so she can tease, “You just want me to be as much of a wreck as you were for your coronation.”

The year-old memory is fond for her, though Barry still claims to be embarrassed by the whole thing. She remembers being so proud of him, stepping up to accept the role of ruler of Central City from his father, and fumbling the actual crown to the point of dropping it when it was handed to him. Barry tends to remember the part where he dropped the crown, whereas she remembers the joke he had said to the court that had set them all at ease, the way he had picked it back up and placed it on his own head. She remembers the speech he had given that had moved both her and Henry to tears. She remembers seeing the court finally recognise him as the king she had always known he could be.

She loops her arms around his neck, and he leans down to kiss her chastely. When he pulls away, she says, “I think I’m ready.”

His lips quirk in a smile. She thinks they’ve matured so much these past few years, navigating new relationships and diplomacies and trainings. They went travelling over the East Continent, and they spent some more time in Central City when Barry was coronated, and they renewed their marriage vows in a small ceremony available only to close friends and family. But she still sees the curiosity she first recognised in the library all those years ago in his eyes that assess her now. 

“I think you’re ready too,” he confesses.

He turns away to offer his arm, and she takes it. She slips her shoes on (heels, as she usually wears these days to hold a conversation with her irritatingly tall husband) and checks her hair one last time in the mirror. She looks up, and says, “Shall we go down?”

In the main hall of the castle, two hundred people wait for her father to pass the West Kingdom crown down onto her. Eddie will be there, probably with the new woman he’s been recently courting – Iris hears she’s lovely. She hasn’t kept much contact with him, apart from seeing him at the occasional social function, but he’s honestly barely crossed her mind. The rest of their acquaintances will be there as well, from Keystone to Starling Kingdom, from National City to Atlantis. The next time she talks to them, she realises with a jolt, they’ll refer to her as Queen, not Princess.

She admits, the responsibility of not only one kingdom, but two, is sometimes a little heavy to bear. She’ll have the occasional nightmare of war, or plagues, or rising prejudices. But from every nightmare, Barry is there to soothe her back to sleep.

She looks to him, and his answering smile is kind, his arm supportive. She squeezes her hand around his bicep, and walks forward to accept her birthright, her destiny.

She’s been a West for her whole life, proud and intelligent and strong. But now she’s an Allen as well, perseverant and kind and brave. And with her husband by her side, she can do anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finished! I am... a little speechless, tbh. This is definitely the largest project I've taken on for a fandom, and it's one of the longest word counts I've ever written. It's been three months of writing, of missing deadlines, of having the most wonderful readers and supporters anyone could ask for.  
> Huge credit goes to @sophisticatedloserchick who has been not only a beta editor but also an amazing human being.  
> Thank you so much to everyone who's kudos'ed, commented, supported me on tumblr, and read this fic. Big love to all of you.


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